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LIFE  AND  POETICAL  WORKS.  Uniform  edition. 
Including  Life  and  Letters,  2  vols. ;  Poetical  Works, 
Household  Edition  ;  Dramatic  Works,  Household 
Edition;  Faust,  translated  by  Taylor,  2  vols. 
The  set,  6  vols,  crown  8vo,  $12.00. 

POETICAL  WORKS  (except  those  dramatic  in  form). 
New  Household  Edition,  from  new  plates.  Edited 
by  Marie  Hansen-Taylor.  With  Portrait  and 
Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  $1.50;  full  gilt,  $2.00. 

DRAMATIC  WORKS.  With  Notes  by  Marie  Han- 
sen-Taylor. Household  Edition.  Crown  8vo, 
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THE  ECHO  CLUB,  and  Other  Literary  Diver- 
sions.    i8mo,  $1.25. 

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PRINCE  DEUKALION.  A  Lyrical  Drama.  8vo, 
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The   Same.     One-volume   Edition.      Crown   8vo, 
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LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  BAYARD  TAYLOR.  Ed- 
ited by  Marie  Hansen-Taylor  and  Horace  E. 
Scudder.  With  Portraits  and  Illustrations.  2  vols, 
crown  8vo,  $4.00. 

HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY, 
Boston,  New  York,  and  Chicago. 


/&ZCyCU-*^ 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 

OF  BAYARD 

TAYLOR 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS 


V  ".  f    O  -        ■ 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

(£fre  0itoer?'ibe  $re#j,  Cambri&oe. 

1902 


THE  UtKARY  ©F 
0GNGRESS, 

Two  Copim  KecEive* 

WAR  »H902 

CLASS  ft^  XX<x  No 

~U  U-  h>  1  h 

copy  a 


■  At 


COPYRIGHT,    1854,    1855,    1862,    1866,   AND    1875,   BY   BAYARD   TAYLOR.      COPYRIGHT, 

1864,  BY  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS.      COPYRIGHT,  1873,  BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1879,  BY  HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  &  CO.    COPYRIGHT,  1882, 

1883,    1890,  1892,  1894,  I90I,  AND    1902,  BY   MARIE   TAYLOR. 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


PREFACE   BY  THE   EDITOR 

When  it  devolved  upon  me,  in  1879,  to  prepare  the  collected  poems  of  Bay- 
ard Taylor  for  the  Household  Edition  of  the  following  year,  I  was  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  have,  as  an  expression  of  the  poet's  wishes  in  regard  to  the  earlier 
productions,  his  own  copy  of  the  Blue  and  Gold  Edition,  published  in  1865 
by  Ticknor  and  Fields.  In  that  volume,  after  careful  and  severe  sifting  of 
his  various  publications  from  1848  to  1863,  Taylor  had  brought  together  all  the 
poems  which  he  wished  to  retain  in  his  "  complete"  poetical  works. 

During  the  latter  years  of  his  life,  however,  his  perfected  judgment  told 
him  that  in  1865,  when  he  struck  out  from  the  Blue  and  Gold  Edition  nineteen 
wOf  the  poems  contained  in  the  two  volumes,  —  "  Poems  of  the  Orient "  (1854), 
"Poems  of  Home  and  Travel  "  (1855),  — he  had  not  been  sufficiently  critical. 
Consequently,  to  satisfy  his.  poetic  conscience,  he  marked,  in  his  own  Blue  and 
Gold  copy,  a  number  of  poems  to  be  excluded  from  the  new  collective  edition 
to  which  he  was  looking  forward.  Abridging  the  table  of  contents,  he  wrote 
at  its  foot:  "  Including  the  three  songs  in  '  the  Poet's  Journal,'  there  are  here 
172  poems  covering  a  period  of  twenty  years.  In  addition  I  have  written, 
but  omitted,  125  others,  some  of  which  have  never  been  published.  There  are 
yet  twenty  or  thirty  which  might  well  be  spared  from  this  collection."  At  a 
still  later  date  the  number  of  poems  thus  marked  for  omission  had  risen  to 
forty.  Aside  from  these  (one  of  which  he  himself  reinstated)  were  two  songs, 
"  Gulistan,"  and  "  A  Pledge  to  Hafiz,"  in  regard  to  which  he  was  uncertain;  as 
he  had  merely  marked  them  as  doubtful,  I  have  given  them  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,  and  in  the  present  edition  left  them  in  their  accustomed  places. 

In  preparing  the  Household  Edition  of  1880,  it  was  no  easy  task  to  deal  with 
the  poems,  either  not  collected  in  the  volume  of  1875,  or  written  after  its  pub- 
lication and  still  in  manuscript.  To  make  amends,  if  at  that  time  I  did  not 
reject  all  the  poetical  productions  Taylor  would  have  rejected,  I  have  elimi- 
nated from  the  present  work,  after  mature  reflection,  a  few  of  the  poems  which 
appeared  in  the  former  Household  Edition.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  in- 
cluded an  additional  poem  which  at  last  has  found  its  rightful  place,  and  is 
printed  for  the  first  time  with  his  collected  verse.  When  preparing  the  former 
edition,  I  was  not  at  liberty  to  include  this  "Centennial  Hymn,"  owing  to 
facts  apparent  in  the  correspondence  between  the  two  poets  (published  by 
Mr.  Samuel  T.  Pickard)  and  Taylor's  remark  to  me,  that  so  long  as  Whittier 
lived,  his  own  Hymn  to  the  Republic  should  not  come  to  light.  In  1892  this 
restriction  was  removed  by  Whittier's  death,  and  two  years  later  the  hymn, 
together  with  its  history,  appeared  in  Pickard's  "Life  and  Letters  of  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier  "  (pp.  616-620). 

The  suggestion  of  arranging  the  poems  of  the  present  edition  so  far  in 


iv  PREFACE 

chronological  order  as  would  not  alter  materially  the  author's  own  grouping 
came  to  me  from  his  expressed  belief,  that  to  understand  the  nature  of  a  poet, 
and  to  see  him  in  his  true  individuality,  one  must  study  him  in  the  development 
of  his  work.  This  fits  Taylor's  case  as  well  as  that  of  any  other.  In  following 
the  flight  of  his  imagination,  as  presented  in  his  poetry,  through  a  space  of 
over  thirty  years,  we  catch  sight  of  his  growth  at  its  various  stages,  and  of  the 
influences  by  which  that  growth  was  governed.  Song,  with  him,  became  en- 
during when,  after  crossing  the  Atlantic  for  the  first  time,  he  was  stimulated 
by  old  world  impressions.  Contact  with  the  picturesque  in  nature  and  in  his- 
tory, the  revelations  to  him  in  the  art  of  Italy,  his  study  of  German  poetry,  all 
combined  to  inspire  him  with  more  than  passing  images  and  conceptions. 
But  to  bear  true  fruitage  he  had  first  to  return  to  his  native  soil.  Here  he 
shortly  afterwards  met  his  life-long  friend,  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  who 
was  equally  enthusiastic  that  they  should  become  ' '  sacrificers  at  the  altar  of 
Divinest  Poesy"  (letter  of  Taylor  to  George  H.  Boker).  At  their  nightly 
symposia  in  Taylor's  New  York  attic,  these  aspiring  devotees  at  the  shrine 
of  poetry  spurred  and  stimulated  each  other,  and  vied  in  imaginative  produc- 
tion.  Years  later,  in  a  sonnet  to  Stoddard,  Taylor  referred  to  that  Arcadian  time 

"  When  first  we  twain  the  pleasant  land  of  Rhyme 
Discovered,  choosing  side  by  side  our  seats 
Below  our  separate  Gods  :  in  midnight  streets, 
In  haunted  attics  flattered  by  the  chime 
Of  silver  words,  and,  fed  by  faith  sublime, 
I  Shelley's  mantle  wore,  you  that  of  Keats." 

His  fanciful  conceit  that  Shelley's  spiritual  influence  had  entered  his  own 
mind  seems  pardonable  in  one  who,  even  before  his  acquaintance  with  the 
works  of  that  poet,  had  voiced  in  his  ' '  Angel  of  the  Soul "  the  same  passion- 
ate appeal  for  the  solution  of  life's  mystery  that  Shelley  had  expressed  in  the 
introductory  passage  of  his  "  Alastor."  But  while  at  even  this  early  period 
his  study  of  Shelley  inspired  him,  and  moved  him  to  such  songs  as  ' '  The  Ode 
to  Shelley"  and  "  Ariel  in  the  Cloven  Pine,"  it  is  but  fair  to  point  to  another 
master-singer  who  might  be  said  to  have  had,  if  not  an  equal,  at  the  least  a 
partial,  influence  on  his  lyrical  expression.  While  in  Germany  he  read,  for 
the  first  time  in  the  original,  Schiller's  poems.  Appealing  to  his  ear  with  their 
rhythmical  beauty,  they  stirred  his  imagination,  and  through  those  early  years 
of  struggle  for  a  "poetical  individuality,"  as  he  himself  termed  it  in  letters 
of  that  time,  there  is  in  his  verse  the  same  exuberance  of  diction,  the  same 
fervor  and  passionate  chase  after  the  ideal,  as  is  to  be  found  in  Schiller's 
"  Poems  of  the  First  Period." 

This  individuality  asserted  itself  in  a  decided  fashion  when  he  produced  his 
first  three  California  ballads,  —  poems  which  were  written  before  he  had  vis- 
ited that  part  of  the  continent.  When  they  appeared  anonymously  in  "The 
Literary  World,"  thoroughly  characteristic  though  they  were,  no  one  so  much 
as  guessed  their  origin.  In  "Kubleh,"  also,  an  idyl  in  which  chords  were 
struck  destined  to  swing  into  wider  vibrations,  we  see  the  steadily  ascending 
range  of  his  poetic  art.  Although  "  Kubleh  "  was  his  earliest  pastoral  of  the 
East,  it  was  not  included  in  his  collection  of  Oriental  Poems,  but  has  kept  its 


PREFACE  v 

place  among  his  Romances  and  Lyrics.  "  Hylas,"  a  poem  the  beauty  of  which 
his  critics  were  unable  to  see,  and  for  which  they  gave  him  cold  praise,  was  the 
crowning  achievement  of  that  period,  — yet,  although  it  was  pure  in  form  as 
the  limbs  of  a  Greek  statue,  and  in  tone  limpid  and  clear  as  the  waters  of  the 
Scamander,  at  the  first  breath  of  adverse  criticism  Taylor  was  abashed,  and 
for  the  moment  doubted  his  own  ability  to  handle  a  classic  theme.  At  the 
time  of  this  latter  poem  he  was  passing  through  experiences  of  love  and  sor- 
row, and  poetical  expression  was  alternately  "a  solace  and  an  impossibility"; 
but  by  degrees,  energy  of  life  and  creative  impulse  reasserted  themselves  until 
as  never  before  he  became  possessed  of  the  spirit  of  song. 

Life  in  the  open  air,  contact  with  the  elemental  forces  of  nature,  had  always 
dominated  him.  Although  poetry  was  his  one  luminary,  he  wanted  to  live 
poetry  as  well  as  to  write  it.  Travel,  new  and  fresh  experiences,  were  a 
necessity  to  his  nature.  When  he  turned  to  the  East,  he  was  prompted  by  an 
instinct  that  seldom  failed  to  lead  him  aright.     Travelling  as  far  as  Nubia,  — 

"  A  land  of  dreams  and  sleep  —  a  poppied  land  !  " 

and  beyond,  "buried  in  the  heat,  the  silence  and  the  mystery  of  mid-Africa," 
he  found  the  peace  and  repose  which  were  needed  to  make  his  mind  once  more 
receptive  to  poetical  conceptions.  But  it  was  not  until  he  approached  the 
shores  of  the  farther  East  that  the  mood  seized  him  to  put  into  visible  form 
the  songs  within  his  brain.  While  in  India,  in  China,  and  "  off  Japan,"  such 
poems  as  "Camadeva"  and  "Daughter  of  Egypt,  veil  thine  eyes,"  came  into 
existence.  But  the  most  fruitful  days  were  those  of  the  voyage  home,  when 
song  after  song  was  written,  to  the  long  swell  of  the  Atlantic  and  the  free 
sweep  of  ocean  winds.  Yet  although  "The  Bedouin's  Song,"  "Nubia," 
"  Tyre,"  and  "  Amram's  Wooing  "  were  but  a  few  of  the  many  that  bore  the 
date  of  the  return,  even  then  the  rich  lyrical  store  he  had  acquired  during  his 
journeyings  through  the  East  was  not  exhausted.  In  the  extended  spring- 
time of  productiveness,  he  wrote  the  "Song  of  the  Camp,"  a  poem  which, 
with  "The  Bedouin's  Song,"  "Daughter  of  Egypt,"  "The  Quaker  Widow," 
and  others,  has  enjoyed  to  the  present  day  an  undiminished  popularity. 

After  such  an  abounding  lyrical  harvest,  it  was  not  strange  that,  for  a  time, 
poetry  should  be  ' '  dead  and  buried  "  (letter  to  Boker).  Taylor  was,  in  fact,  as 
he  wrote  to  his  publisher,  passing  from  one  phase  into  another,  and  he  wanted 
to  slough  the  old  skin  completely  before  appearing  in  the  new.  This  state  of 
transition  was  natural.  Worshipper  hitherto  at  the  shrine  of  Nature,  the 
truth  gradually  dawned  on  him  that  Man  was  more  than  she.  A  poem, 
written  in  1856  (judging  from  existing  fragments  in  manuscript)  takes  us 
directly  into  his  confidence :  — 

"  I  gave  to  Nature  more  than  she  gave  back  ; 

The  dreams  that,  vanished  once,  return  no  more  ; 

Passions  that  left  her  colder  than  before, 
And  the  warm  soul  her  stubborn  features  lack. 
It  was  an  echo  of  my  heart  I  heard 

Sing  in  the  sky ,  and  chant  along  the  sea  ; 
My  life  the  affluence  of  her  own  conferred, 

And  gave  her  seeming  sympathy  with  me. 


vi  PREFACE 

' '  The  voices  which  encouraged  me  are  dumb. 
The  soul  I  recognized  in  Earth  is  fled. 
I  wait  for  answers  which  have  ceased  to  come. 
I  press  the  pulse  of  Nature  ;  she  is  dead. 


"0,  not  to  know,  the  sunny  mist  that  gilds 

The  mountain  tops,  my  breath  has  thither  blown  ! 
O,  not  to  feel  that  loftiest  Beauty  builds 
In  Man  her  Temple,  and  in  Man  alone ! 

"  Love,  passion,  rapture,  terror,  grief,  repose, 
Through  him  alone  the  face  of  Nature  knows  ; 
There  is  no  aspect  of  the  changing  zones 

But  springs  from  something  deeper  in  the  heart ; 

Then,  let  me  touch  its  chords  with  tender  art, 
And  cease  to  chant  in  wind-harp  monotones." 

This  composition  was  entitled  ' '  Renunciation. "  It  was  rewritten  and  published 
in  1859,  and  appeared  for  the  last  time  in  the  collective  edition  of  1865. 

Several  years  passed  before  the  poetic  mood  again  seized  him,  and  "The 
Return  of  the  Goddess"  ushered  in  that  "freshet  of  song"  which  culminated 
in  "The  Poet's  Journal."  In  a  measure  "The  Poet's  Journal"  is  a  retro- 
spect of  Taylor's  inner  life,  —  his  love,  sorrow,  despair,  and  final  recovery  ;  but 
in  a  measure  only.  That  he  shrank  from  giving  to  the  public  his  inmost 
experiences  and  feelings  was  well  known  to  his  friends.  It  may  be  owing 
to  this  that  lyrics  like  "On  the  Headlands"  and  "Young  Love"  had  for 
seven  years  been  locked  in  his  portfolio,  when  at  last  they  appeared  in 
"The  Poet's  Journal." 

The  din  of  civil  rebellion  and  the  tumult  of  war  were  not  propitious  to  Art. 
During  the  apathy  of  the  country  toward  imaginative  literature,  there  rose  up 
before  Taylor,  claiming  his  long  postponed  devotion,  a  conception  which  for 
years  had  lingered  in  his  mind.  Despite  many  hindrances  and  the  fact  that 
his  work  for  the  most  part  had  to  be  done  at  night,  his  composition  "The  Pic- 
ture of  St.  John,"  to  its  very  last  stanza,  had  "  precedence  over  all  other  guests 
of  his  brain  "  (letter  to  E.  C.  Stedman).  With  its  completion  he  was  free  of 
his  last  debt  to  the  past,  and,  at  the  threshold  of  his  final  and  most  mature 
period  of  artistic  and  intellectual  growth,  the  ascendency  of  thought  over  pas- 
sion dawned  upon  him.  The  gigantic  labor  bestowed  by  him  upon  his  trans- 
lation of  Goethe's  "Faust"  hastened  this  full  development  of  his  powers; 
and  while  the  task  of  adequately  transposing  the  German  into  English  enriched 
his  mind  and  taught  him  to  give  closer  heed  to  form,  or  as  he  put  it,  "  to  the 
secret  of  expression,"  the  poem  itself  suggested  to  him  a  new  range  of  ideas. 

' '  The  Sunshine  of  the  Gods  "  marks  the  dividing  line  between  the  period 
through  which  he  had  passed  and  the  one  upon  which  he  was  entering.  Not 
long  afterwards  the  "Home  Pastorals"  appeared.  In  them  he  thrust,  as  he 
was  "learning  to  do"  (letter  to  T.  B.  Aldrich,  1872),  the  "  basis  of  clear  sym- 
metrical reality  under  the  forms  of  fancy."  These  pastorals  he  conceived  and 
wrote  under  the  stimulus  of  his  study  of  Goethe,  whose  "  Hermann  and  Doro- 
thea "  convinced  him  that  the  hexameter  might  be  mastered  in  English  no  less 
effectively  than  it  had  been  in  German.     His  endeavor,  in  his  pastorals,  to 


PREFACE  vii 

make  it  ring  with  music  was  so  successful  that  Emerson  was  moved  to  write 
(letter  to  J.  T.  Fields,  December  12,  1870 ) :  — 

"I  .  .  .  lately  wondered  whether  Clough  had  risen  again  and  was  pouring 
rich  English  hexameters,  until  I  pleased  myself  with  discovering  the  singer 
without  external  hint  of  any  kind,  only  by  the  wide  travel." 

The  Pennsylvania  ballads,  the  odes,  and  other  poems,  from  this  time  to  Tay- 
lor's premature  death,  are  as  so  many  stepping-stones  to  the  higher  goal  for 
which  he  was  striving.  In  the  way  of  a  narrative  poem,  the  production  of 
"Lars"  is  one  of  his  best  achievements;  while  the  "Improvisations,"  "Peach 
Blossoms,"  and  "Assyrian  Song"  reveal  that  in  no  wise  had  his  lyrical  gift 
suffered  by  the  stage  of  his  growth  which  some  would  call  metaphysical,  but 
which  he  was  better  pleased  to  characterize  as  psychological. 

Although  in  bulk  and  substance  Taylor's  three  dramatic  poems,  "The 
Masque  of  the  Gods,"  "  The  Prophet,"  and  "Prince  Deukalion,"  form  an  in- 
tegral part  of  the  poetical  outcome  of  this  latter  period,  they  are  not  embraced 
in  the  present  collection,  but  are  published  in  a  separate  volume.  With  the 
exception  of  these  three  dramas,  all  the  poems  which  Bayard  Taylor  intended 
should  be  known  as  his,  or  might  have  desired  to  see  included  in  his  works, 
are  now  given  to  the  public  in  this  new  and  revised  edition. 

M.  T. 

New  York,  January,  1902. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

Bayard  Taylor  was  born  January  11,  1825,  in  Kennett  Square,  Pennsyl- 
vania. He  was  of  Quaker  descent,  and  although  not  actually  belonging  to 
the  "Friends,"  was  reared  in  the  principles  of  their  Society.  His  education 
was  restricted  to  that  of  a  country  academy,  which  did  not  afford  him  more 
than  the  commonest  teaching.  He  himself,  however,  supplemented  this  by  his 
eagerness  to  gain  information  in  any  way  that  offered.  He  read  at  an  early 
age  all  the  books  to  be  found  in  the  village  library  and  in  the  possession  of 
friends;  but  outside  of  books  Nature  was  his  teacher.  Roaming  through  the 
woods  which  surrounded  his  father's  farm,  and  musing  on  the  banks  of  rip- 
pling streams,  he  caught  the  melodies  of  song,  tbe  expression  of  which  was  a 
necessity  to  him  as  long  as  he  lived.  Even  as  early  as  in  his  eighth  year  he 
began  to  write  poetry,  and  when  a  youth  of  sixteen  he  saw  his  first  poem  in 
print.  The  year  after,  in  1842,  he  was  placed  in  a  printing-office,  to  become 
a  printer,  —  a  vocation  which  he  soon  left,  to  satisfy  a  desire  for  travel.  It 
was  a  true  instinct  which  led  him  to  see  the  world  ;  he  gained  by  it  what  he 
could  not  get  in  any  other  way  —  his  university  education ;  and  the  know- 
ledge he  gathered  of  countries  and  peoples  was  so  much  capital  invested  in 
the  interest  of  poetry.  Each  record  of  travel  published  by  him  was  followed 
by  a  volume  of  poems  ;  and  later  in  life,  when  his  works  of  travel  ceased,  and 
his  prose  took  the  form  of  fiction,  poetry  became  more  than  ever  the  control- 
ling object  of  interest. 

His  first  volume  of  poems,  which  afterwards  he  wished  forgotten,  was  pub- 
lished in  1844,  just  before  he  left  the  printing-office  to  make  his  first  jour- 
ney in  Europe.  It  is  called  "  Ximena  ;  or,  The  Battle  of  the  Sierra  Morena, 
and  other  Poems."  The  fruit  of  his  two  years' wanderings  in  Europe  was 
"Views  Afoot;  or,  Europe  seen  with  Knapsack  and  Staff,"  succeeded  by 
"Rhymes  of  Travel,  Ballads,  and  Poems,"  which  appeared  in  1848,  shortly 
after  he  had  settled  in  New  York,  and  had  become  engaged  on  the  staff  of  the 
New  York  "Tribune."  The  following  year  he  made  his  second  journey,  as 
correspondent  for  that  paper,  to  California,  the  newly  discovered  gold-mine 
of  the  continent.  The  result  was  a  prose  volume,  "Eldorado;  or,  Adven- 
tures in  the  Path  of  Empire,"  which  was  soon  followed  by  a  new  collection  of 
poems,  entitled,  "  A  Book  of  Romances,  Lyrics,  and  Songs."  When  this  vol- 
ume made  its  appearance,  its  author  was  already  embarked  for  Egypt  and 
the  Orient,  India  and  Japan,  —  a  series  of  travels  which  occupied  more  than 
two  successive  years.  He  returned  at  the  close  of  1853,  and  brought  back 
with  him  material  for  three  volumes  of  prose  :  "  A  Journey  to  Central  Africa ; 
or,  Life  and  Landscapes  from  Egypt  to  the  Negro  Kingdoms  of  the  Nile ;  " 
"  The  Lands  of  the  Saracens  ;  or,  Pictures  of  Palestine,  Asia  Minor,  Sicily,  and 


x  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

Spain  ;  "  and  "A  Visit  to  India,  China,  and  Japan  in  the  year  1853."  Almost 
simultaneously  with  these  the  "Poems  of  the  Orient"  came  forth,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  new  collection  of  the  older  poems,  with  the  addition  of  a  number 
of  new  ones,  under  the  title  of  "  Poems  of  Home  and  Travel."  The  summer 
of  1856  saw  him  once  more  in  Europe.  This  time  he  visited  Scandinavia, 
Russia,  and  Greece,  and  then  published  "  Northern  Travel,"  and  "Travels  in 
Greece  and  Russia,  with  an  Excursion  to  Crete."  "The  Poet's  Journal," 
which  was  written  not  long  after  (in  1860,  although  not  published  until  two 
years  later),  was  not  directly  connected  with  these  travels ;  the  poems  con- 
tained in  it  were  rather  the  healthy  reaction  from  a  most  unpoetical  field  of 
labor  into  which  he  had  been  driven  by  circumstance,  —  the  lecturing  busi- 
ness. 

With  the  completion  of  "  The  Poet's  Journal "  Bayard  Taylor  entered  upon 
a  new  epoch  of  his  poetical  career.  His  travels  for  the  sake  of  seeing  the 
world  and  its  people  were  now  a  thing  of  the  past ;  he  turned  to  the  delinea- 
tion of  and  the  problems  propounded  by  human  character  in  three  successive 
novels,  "  Hannah  Thurston,"  "John  Godfrey's  Fortunes,"  and  "The  Story  of 
Kennett,"  to  be  followed  by  a  fourth  one,  "  Joseph  and  his  Friend,"  several 
years  later  (1870) ;  he  became  also  absorbed  in  contemplating  the  development 
of  the  artistic  nature,  as  set  forth  in  his  next  volume  of  poetry,  "The  Picture 
of  St.  John,"  whilst  his  mind  was  already  busy  with  his  great  work,  the 
translation  of  Goethe's  "Faust."  The  former  appeared  in  1866;  the  first 
volume  of  the  latter  in  1870,  and  the  second  volume  in  1871.  Of  prose  vol- 
umes belonging  to  this  period,  aside  from  the  novels,  there  are  "  By-Ways  of 
Europe,"  sketches  written  during  a  two-years'  stay  abroad,  and  "  Beauty  and 
the  Beast,  and  Tales  of  Home,"  a  collection  of  short  magazine  stories. 

The  study  entailed  by  the  translation  of  "  Faust "  must  have  stimulated  the 
creative  power  of  the  poet ;  for  within  the  two  years  following  the  publica- 
tion of  the  second  part  of  "Faust,"  Bayard  Taylor  produced  three  large 
poems.  Two  of  them — "The  Masque  of  the  Gods,"  and  "The  Prophet: 
A  Tragedy"  —  are  dramatic  in  form;  the  third,  written  between  these  two, 
is  "  Lars  :  A  Pastoral  of  Norway."  The  two  latter  poems  he  wrote  during  a 
holiday  abroad.  After  returning  home,  he  published  also  a  volume  of  all  his 
shorter  poems  hitherto  uncollected,  which  he  called  "Home  Pastorals,  Bal- 
lads, and  Lyrics."  In  1876  he  was  called  upon  to  write  the  "  National  Ode  " 
for  the  Centennial  Fourth  of  July  ;  and  shortly  before  his  death,  his  last  work 
of  importance  —  the  dramatic  poem  "  Prince  Deukalion  "  —  was  issued. 

There  are  publications  of  Bayard  Taylor's  of  which  no  mention  has  been 
made  in  this  brief  sketch.  They  are  those  of  minor  consideration,  which  did 
not  seem  pertinent  to  our  purpose.  It  is  the  poet  with  whom  we  have  to 
deal  here,  and  as  a  poet  we  see  him  not  only  in  his  poetical  works,  but  also  in 
his  books  of  travel,  in  his  novels  and  tales.  From  a  youth,  worshipping 
devoutly  at  the  shrine  of  Poesy,  he  grew  into  the  man  setting  his  poetic  goal 
higher  and  higher  the  more  he  advanced,  never  flagging  in  aspiration  to  the 
end.  He  died  at  Berlin,  Germany,  where,  as  minister,  he  was  the  representa- 
tive of  the  United  States,  on  December  19,  1878. 


CONTENTS 


EARLY  POEMS. 

LYRICS.     1845-1851. 

The  Harp  :  An  Ode  ...  1 

Serapion 4 

''Moan,  Ye  "Wild  Winds!"    .  5 

Taurus      6 

Autumnal  Vespers  ...  7 

Ode  to  Shelley      ...  8 

Sicilian  Wine     ....  9 

Storm-Lines     ....  10 

The  Two  Visions       ...  11 

Storm  Song  ....  11 
Song:    "I  plucked  for  thee 

the  wilding  rose"        .       .  12 

The  Waves  ....  12 
Song:    "From  the  bosom   of 

ocean  i  seek  thee  "      .        .13 

Sonnet.    To  G.  H.  B.    .        .  13 

The  Wayside  Dream        .        .  13 

Steyermark     ....  14 

To  a  Bavarian  Girl         .        .  14 

In  Italy 15 

A  Bacchic  Ode   .        .        .        .15 

A  Funeral  Thought     .        .  16 

The  Norseman's  Ride       .        .  17 

The  Continents     ...  17 

L'Envoi 19 

CALIFORNIA   BALLADS   AND  POEMS. 
1S4S-1851. 

Manuela 19 

The  Fight  of  Paso  del  Mar  .  20 
The  Pine  Forest  of  Mon- 
terey .  .  .  .  .21 
El  Canelo  ....  23 
The  Summer  Camp  .  .  .  24 
The  Bison  Track  ...       27 

ROMANCES.     1849-1851. 

Mon-da-Min  ;  or,  The  Romance 

of  Maize 28 

Hylas 34 

Kubleh  :  A  Story  of  the  As- 
syrian Desert        .        .        .37 

Metempsychosis  of  the  Pine  39 

The  Soldier  and  the  Pard  42 

Ariel  in  the  Cloven  Pine    .  46 

POEMS  OF  THE  ORIENT.    1851-1854. 

Proem  Dedicatory:  An  Epis- 
tle from  Mount  Tmolus  .        51 
a  p.ean  to  the  dawn     •        •     53 


FAGK 

The  Poet  in  the  East  .  54 
The   Temptation   of   Hassan 

Ben  Khaled  .  .  .  .55 
El  Khalil  ....  61 
Song:  "Daughter  of  Egypt, 

veil  thine  eyes"  .  .    62 

Amran's  Wooing  ...  62 
A  Pledge  to  Hafiz  .  .  .66 
The  Garden  of  Irem  .  .  67 
The  Wisdom  of  Ali  :  An  Arab 

Legend 68 

An  Oriental  Idyl  ...  69 
Bedouin  Song  .  .  .  .69 
Desert  Hymn  to  the  Sun  .  70 
Nilotic  Drinking  Song  .  .  71 
Camadeva  ....  71 
Nubia 72 


Klllmandjaro 
The  Birth  of  the  Prophet 
To  the  Nile  .... 
Hassan  to  his  Mare 

Charmian 

Smyrna         .... 
To  a  Persian  Boy 
The  Arab  to  the  Palm  . 
Aurum  Potabile     . 
On  the  Sea 

Tyre 

An  Answer 

gultstan  .       . 

L'Envoi        .... 


LATER  POEMS. 


72 
73 
75 
75 
76 
77 
77 
78 
78 
79 
80 
80 
81 
81 


FRICS.     1854-1860. 

PORPHYROGENITUS     . 

85 

The  Song  of  the  Camp  . 

.     86 

Icarus        .... 

86 

The  Bath    .... 

.    88 

The  Fountain  of  Trevi 

89 

Proposal      .... 

.     89 

The  Palm  and  the  Pine 

89 

The  Vineyard-Saint 

.    90 

On  Leaving  California 

91 

Wind  and  Sea    . 

.    92 

My  Dead  .... 

92 

The  Lost  Crown 

.    93 

Studies  for  Pictures    . 

93 

Sunken  Treasures    . 

.    95 

The  Voyagers 

96 

Song:    "Now  the    days   a 

RE 

BRLEF  AND  DREAR  " 

.    96 

The  Mystery  . 

97 

A  Picture 

.    97 

Xll 


CONTENTS 


In  the  Meadows     . 

"Down  in  the  dell  I  wan- 
dered"       

Song  :  "  They  call  thee  false 
as  thou  art  fair  "     . 

The  Phantom     .... 

THE  POET'S  JOURNAL. 
Preface:  The  Return  of  the 

Goddess 

Inscription  :  To   the   Mistress 


103 


of  Cedarcroft     . 

.      104 

First  Evening 

.  105 

The  Torso 

.      108 

On  the  Headland     . 

.  109 

Marah 

.      109 

The  Voice  of  the  Tempter  .  110 

Exorcism  . 

.      Ill 

Squandered  Lives     . 

.  Ill 

A  Symbol 

.      112 

Second  Evening     . 

.  114 

Atonement 

.      115 

December    . 

.  115 

Sylvan  Spirits 

.      116 

The  Lost  May    . 

.  116 

Churchyard  Roses 

.      117 

Autumnal  Dreams    . 

.  117 

In  Winter 

.      118 

Young  Love 

.  118 

The  Chapel     . 

.      119 

If  Love  should  come  again   .  119 

Third  Evening 

.      121 

The  Return  of  Spring 

.  123 

Morning    .... 

.       123 

The  Vision  . 

.  124 

Love  Returned 

.      124 

A  Woman     . 

.  125 

The  Count  of  Gleichen      .      125 

Before  the  Bridal  . 

.  126 

Possession 

.      126 

Under  the  Moon 

.  127 

The  Mystic  Summer 

.      128 

The  Father 

.  129 

The  Mother    . 

.      129 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS.    1861-1865. 

Through  Baltimore 

.  135 

To  the  American  People    .      135 

Scott  and  the  Veteran  .       .  136 

March 

.      137 

Euphorion    . 

.  138 

A  Thousand  Years 

.      138 

The  Neva    . 

.  139 

A  Story  for  a  Child 

.      141 

From  the  North 

.  141 

A  Wedding  Sonnet 

.       142 

Christmas  Sonnets    . 

.  142 

A  Statesman  . 

.      143 

Chant    .... 

.  143 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

1861-1871. 

A  Day  in  March 

.  147 

The  Test  . 

.      147 

Canopus 

.  148 

Cupido 149 

The  Sleeper  ....  150 
My  Farm:  A  Fable  .  .  152 
Harpocrates  ....  153 
Run  Wild  ....  154 
Sonnet  :  "Where  should  the 
Poet's  home  and  household 

be?" 155 

"Casa  Guidi  Windows"       .      155 

Pandora 156 

Sorrento  ....      157 

In  my  Vineyard  .  .  .  158 
The  Two  Greetings  .  .  159 
Shekh  Ahnaf's  Letter  from 

Baghdad 160 

Napoleon  at  Gotha  .  .  164 
The  Accolade  .  .  .  .167 
Eric  and  Axel        .        .        .      168 

THE  PICTURE  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

Editor's  Note  ....  173 
Introductory  Note  .  .  175 
Proem:  To  the  Artists  .  .  177 
Book  I.  The  Artist  .  .  181 
Book  II.  The  Woman  .  .  195 
Book  III.  The  Child  .  .  208 
Book  IV.  The  Picture    .        .  221 

HOME  BALLADS. 

The  Quaker  Widow  .  .  237 
The  Holly-Tree  .  .  .239 
John  Reed       ....      241 

Jane  Reed 242 

The        Old       Pennsylvania 
Farmer  ....      244 

HOME  PASTORALS.    1869-1874. 

Ad  Amicos  •        •        .        -248 

Proem 249 

May-Time 250 

August 253 

November 256 

L'Envoi 259 

LARS:  A  PASTORAL  OF  NORWAY. 
To    John    Greenleaf    Whit- 
tier    262 

Book  I 263 

Book  II 276 

Book  III 290 

LATEST  LYRICS.    1870-1878. 

The  Burden  of  the  Day  .  307 
In  the  Lists  ....  307 
The  Sunshine  of  the  Gods  .  308 
Notus  Ignoto  ....  309 
The  Two  Homes        .       .       .310 

Iris 311 

Implora  Pace  .  .  .  .311 
Penn  Calvin  .  .  .  .312 
Summer  Night  .        .        .  313 

The  Guests  of  Night  .        .      314 
Sonnet:  "Who,  harnessed  in 
his  mail  of  Self,  demands  "  315 


CONTENTS 


xin 


To  Marie  .... 
Centennial,  Hymn 
The  Song  of  1870  . 
Improvisations    . 
Marigold  .... 
Will  and  Law    .        , 
True  Love's  Time  of  Day 

Youth 

The  Imp  of  Springtime 
A  Lover's  Test  . 
To  my  Daughter    . 
A  Friend's  Greeting 
Peach-Blossom 
Assyrian  Night-Song 
My  Prologue  . 


315 
315 
316 
316 
319 
319 
319 
319 
320 
320 
321 
321 
322 
323 
323 


Gabriel 

The  Lost  Caryatid 

The  Village  Stork  . 

ODES.    1869-1878. 

Gettysburg  Ode    . 
Shakespeare's  Statue 
Goethe      .... 
The  National  Ode    . 
The  Obsequies  in  Rome 
Epicedium    . 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 
INDEX  OF  TITLES 


324 

324 
326 


331 
335 
338 
342 
348 
350 

355 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE        - 

Bayard  Taylor  (Photogravure)  ......        Frontispiece 

The  Arno 15  *-^ 

"Of  canons  grown  with  pine  and  folded  deep" 24  *^ 

The  Sphinx 42  »^ 

Bedouin  Song  (facsimile) 69  *f 

"Thou  guardest  temple  and  vast  pyramid" 75*^ 

"  When  buds  have  burst  the  silver  sheath  " 116  ^ 

"Italy,  loved  of  the  sun" 156^ 

"To  silent  Venice  in  her  crystal  nest" 187^, 

"From  out  the  fading  maze  of  mountains" 218 S 

"The  mother  looked  from  the  house" 210V 

"  I  'M  GLAD  I  BUILT  THIS   SOUTHERN  PORCH  " 244  k 

November 256  v 

William  Cullen  Bryant 350 »" 


The  manuscript  of  Bedouin  Song  was  kindly  lent  by  Mr.  Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


EARLY  POEMS 


LYRICS 


1845-1851 


THE  HARP:    AN  ODE 


Wttf.x  bleak  winds  through  the  North- 
ern pines  were  sweeping, 
Some  hero-skald,  reclining  on  the 
sand, 
Attuned  it  first,  the  chords  harmoni- 
ous keeping 
With  murmuring   forest  and  with 
moaning  strand  : 
And  when,    at  night,   the  horns  of 
mead  foamed  over, 
And  torches  flared  around  the  was- 
sail board, 
It  breathed  no  song  of  maid,  nor  sigh 
of  lover, 
It  rang  aloud  the  triumphs  of  the 
sword ! 
It  mocked  the  thunders  of  the  ice- 
ribbed  ocean, 
With  clenched  hands  beating  back 
the  dragon's  prow  ; 
It   gave  Berserker  arms  their  battle 
motion. 
And  swelled  the  red  veins  on  the 
Vikino-'s  brow  ! 


No  myrtle,  plucked  in  dalliance,  ever 
sheathed  it, 
To  melt  the  savage  ardor  of    its 
flow  ; 
The  only  gauds  wherewith  its  lord 
enwreathed  it. 
The  lusty  fir  and  Druid  mistletoe. 
Thus  bound,  it  kept  the  old,  accus- 
tomed cadence, 
Whether  it  pealed  through  slumber- 
ous ilex  bowers 
In  stormy  wooing  of  Byzantine  maid- 
ens. 
Or  shook  Trinacria's  languid  lap  of 
flowers  ; 


Whether  Genseric's  conquering  march 
it  chanted, 
Till  cloudy  Atlas  rang  with  Gothic 
staves, 
Or  where  gray  Calpe's  pillared  feet 
are  planted, 
Died  grandly  out  upon  the  unknown 
waves  ! 


Not  unto  Scania's  bards  alone  belong- 
ing, 
The  craft  that  loosed  its  tongues  of 
changing  sound, 
For  Ossian  played,  and  ghosts  of  he- 
roes, thronging, 
Leaned  on  their  spears  above  the 
misty  mound. 
The  Cambrian  eagle,  round  his  eyrie 
winging, 
Heard    the    wild    chant     through 
mountain-passes  rolled, 
When  bearded  throats  chimed  in  with 
mighty  singing, 
And    monarchs  listened,    in    their 
torques  of  gold : 
Its  dreary  wail,  blent  with  the  sea- 
mews'  clangor, 
Surged  round  the  lonely  keep  of 
Penmaen-Mawr ; 
It  pealed  aloud,  in  battle's  glorious 
anger, 
Behind  the  banner  of  the  Blazing 
Star! 


The  strings  are  silent ;  who  shall  dare 
to  wake  them, 
Though  later  deeds  demand  their 
living  powers  ? 
Silent  in  other  lands,  what  hand  shall 
make  them 
Leap  as  of  old,  to  shape  the  songs 
of  ours  ? 


LYRICS 


Here,  while  the  sapless  bulk  of  Eu- 
rope moulders, 
Springs  the  rich  blood  to  hero-veins 
unsealed,  — 
Source  of  that  Will,  that  on  its  fear- 
less shoulders 
Would  bear  the  world's  fate  lightly 
as  a  shield : 
Here  moves  a  larger  life,  to  grander 
measures 
Beneath  our  sky  and  through  our 
forests  rung ; 
Why  sleeps  the  harp,  forgetful  of  its 
treasures,  — 
Buried  in  songs  that  never  yet  were 
sung? 


Great,  solemn  songs,  that  with  majes- 
tic sounding 
Should    swell    the    Nation's    heart 
from  sea  to  sea ; 
Informed  with  power,  with   earnest 
hope  abounding 
And  prophecies  of  triumph  yet  to 
be! 
Songs,  by  the  wild  wind  for  a  thou- 
sand ages 
Hummed  o'er  our  central  prairies, 
vast  and  lone ; 
Glassed  by  the  Northern  lakes  in  crys- 
tal pages, 
And  carved  by  hills  on  pinnacles  of 
stone ; 
Songs  chanted  now,  where  undiscov- 
ered fountains 
Make  in  the  wilderness  their  bab- 
bling home, 
And  through  the  deep-hewn  canons  of 
the  mountains 
Plunge  the  cold  rivers  in  perpetual 
foam! 


Sung  but  by  these :  our  forests  have 
no  voices ; 
Rapt  with  no  loftier  strain  our  riv- 
ers roll ; 
Far  in  the  sky,  no  song-crowned  peak 
rejoices 
In  words  that  give  the  silent  air  a 
soul. 
Wake,   mighty  Harp!    and  thrill  the 
shores  that  hearken 
For  the  first  peal  of  thine  immortal 
rhyme : 


Call  from  the  shadows  that  begin  to 
darken 
The  beaming  forms  of  our  heroic 
time : 
Sing  us  of  deeds,  that  on  thy  strings 
outsoaring 
The  ancient  soul  they  glorified  so 
long, 
Shall  win  the  world  to  hear  thy  grand 
restoring, 
And  own  thy  latest  thy  sublimest 
song! 

1850. 


SERAPION 

Come  hither,  Child !  thou  silent,  shy 
Young  creature  of  the  glorious  eye ! 
Though  never  yet  by  ruder  air 
Than  father's  kiss  or  mother's  prayer 
Were  stirred  the  tendrils  of  thy  hair, 
The  sadness  of  a  soul  that  stands 
Withdrawn  from  Childhood's  frolic 

bands, 
A  stranger  in  the  land,  I  trace 
Upon  thy  brow's  cherubic  grace 
The  tender  pleadings  of  thy  face, 
Where  other  stars  than  Joy  and  Hope 
Have  cast  thy  being's  horoscope. 

For  thee,  the  threshold  of  the  world 
Is  yet  with  morning  dews  impearled ; 
The  nameless  radiance  of  Birth 
Imbathes  thy  atmosphere  of  Earth, 
And,  like  a  finer  sunshine,  swims 
Round  every  motion  of  thy  limbs  : 
The  sweet,  sad  wonder  and  surprise 
Of  waking  glimmers  in  thine  eyes, 
And  wiser  instinct,  purer  sense, 
And  gleams  of  rare  intelligence 
Betray  the  converse  held  by  thee 
With  the  angelic  family. 

Come  hither,  Boy !  For  while  I  press 
Thy  lips'  confiding  tenderness, 
Less  broad  and  dark  the  spaces  be 
Which  Life  has  set  'twixt  thee  and  me. 
Thy  soul's  white  feet  shall  soon  de- 
part 
On  paths  I  walked  with  eager  heart ; 
God  give  thee,  in  His  kindly  grace, 
A  brighter  road,  a  loftier  place! 
I  see  thy  generous  nature  flow 
In  boundless  trust  to  friend  and  foe, 
And  leap,  despite  of  shocks  and  harms, 


MOAN,  YE   WILD   WINDS!" 


To  clasp  the  world  in  loving  arms. 
I  see  that  glorious  circle  shrink 
Back  to  thy  feet,  at  Manhood's  brink, 
Narrowed  to  one,  one  image  fair, 
And  all  its  splendor  gathered  there. 
The  shackles  of  experience  then 
Sit  lightly  as  on  meaner  men  : 
In  flinty  paths  thy  feet  may  bleed, 
Thorns*  pierce   thy  flesh,    thou  shalt 

not  heed, 
Till  when,  all  panting  from  the  task. 
Thine  arms  outspread  their  right  shall 

ask, 
Thine  arms  outspread  that  right  shall 

fly. 

The  star  shall  burst,  the  splendor  die ! 
Go,  with  thy  happier  brothers  play, 
As  heedless  and  as  wild  as  they ; 
Seek  not  so  soon  thy  separate  way, 
Thou  lamb  in  Childhood's  field  astray ! 

"Whence   earnest  thou  ?    what    angel 

bore 
Thee  past  so  many  a  fairer  shore 
Of  guarding  love,  and  guidance  mild, 
To  drop  thee  on  this  barren  wild  ? 
Thy  soul  is  lonely  as  a  star, 
When  all  its  fellows  muffled  are,  — 
A  single  star,  whose  light  appears 
To  glimmer  through  subduing  tears. 
The" father  who  begat  thee  sees 
In  thee  no  deeper  mysteries 
Than  load  his  heavy  ledger's  page, 
And  swell  for  him  thy  heritage. 
A  hard,  cold  man,  of  punctual  face, 
Renowned  in  Credit's  holy-place, 
Whose  very  wrinkles  seem  arrayed 
In  cunniug  hieroglyphs  of  trade,  — 
Whose  gravest  thought  but  just  un- 
locks 
The  problems  of  uncertain  stocks,  — 
Whose  farthest  flights  of  hope  extend 
From  dividend  to  dividend. 
Thy  mother,  —  but  a  mother's  name 
Too  sacred  is,  too  sweet  for  blame. 
No  doubt  she  loves  thee,  —  loves  the 

shy, 
Strange  beauty  of  thy  glorious  eye  ; 
Loves  the  soft  mouth,  whose  drooping 

line 
Is  silent  music  ;  loves  to  twine 
Thy  silky  hair  in  ringlets  trim  ; 
To    watch    thy    lightsome     play    of 

limb; 
But.  God  forgive  me  !  I,  who  find 
The  soul  within  that  beauty  shrined, 


I  love  thee  more,  I  know  thy  worth 
Better,  than  she  who  gave  thee  birth. 

Are  they  thy  keepers  ?    They  would 

thrust 
The  priceless  jewel  in  the  dust ; 
Would  tarnish  in  their  careless  hold 
The  vessel  of  celestial  gold. 
Who  gave  them  thee  ?    What  fortune 

lent 
Their  hands  the  delicate  instrument, 
Which  finer  hands  might    teach  to 

hymn 
The  harmonies  of  Seraphim, 
Which    they  shall  make    discordant 

soon, 
The  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  ? 
Mine  eyes  are  dim  :  I  cannot  see 
The  purposes  of  Destiny, 
But  than  my  love  Heaven  could  not 

shine 
More  lovingly,  if  thou  wert  mine ! 
Rest  then  securely  on  my  heart : 
Give  me  thy  trust :  my  child  thou  art, 
And  I  shall  lead  thee  through  the 

years 
To  Hopes  and  Passions,  Loves  and 

Fears, 
Till,  following  up  Life's  endless  plan 
A  strong  and  self-dependent  Man, 
I  see  thee  stand  and  strive  with  men : 
Thy  Father  now,  thy  Brother  then. 

1851. 


"MOAN,   YE  WILD   WINDS!" 

Moan,   ye  wild  winds!   around    the 

pane, 
And  fall,  thou  drear  December  rain ! 
Fill  with  your  gusts  the  sullen  day, 
Tear  the  last  clinging  leaves  away ! 
Reckless  as  yonder  naked  tree, 
No  blast  of  yours  can  trouble  me. 

Give  me  your  chill  and  stern  embrace, 
And  pour  your  baptism  on  my  face, 
Sound  in  mine  ears  the  airy  moan 
That  sweeps  in  desolate  monotone, 
Where  on  the  unsheltered  hill-top  beat 
The  marches  of  your  homeless  feet. 

Moan  on,  ye  winds !  and  pour,  thou 

rain! 
Your  stormy  sobs  and  tears  are  vain, 
If  shed  for  her  whose  fading  eyes 


6 


LYRICS 


Will  open  soon  on  Paradise: 

The  eye  of  Heaven  shall  blinded  be, 

Or  ere  ye  cease,  if  shed  for  me. 

1850. 


TAURUS 


The  Scorpion's  stars  crawl  down  be- 
hind the  sun, 
And  when  he  drops  below  the  verge 
of  day, 
The    glittering    fangs,    their    fervid 
courses  run, 
Cling  to  his  skirts  and  follow  him 
away. 
Then,  ere  the  heels  of  flying  Capricorn 
Have  touched  the  western  moun- 
tain's darkening  rim, 
I    mark,    stern  Taurus,  through  the 
twilight  gray 
The  glinting  of  thy  horn, 
And  sullen  front,  uprising  large  and 
dim, 
Bent  to  the  starry  hunter's  sword,  at 
bay. 


Thy    hoofs,    unwilling,     climb    the 
sphery  vault ; 
Thy  red  eye  trembles  with  an  angry 
glare, 
When  the  hounds  follow,  and  in  fierce 
assault 
Bay  through    the    fringes    of    the 
lion's  hair. 
The  stars  that  once  were  mortal  in 
their  love, 
And  by  their  love  are  made  immor- 
tal now, 
Cluster  like  golden    bees  upon  thy 
mane, 
When  thou,  possessed  with 
Jove, 
Bore   sweet  Europa's  garlands  on 
thy  brow, 
And  stole  her  from  the  green  Sicilian 
plain. 


Type  of  the  stubborn  force  that  will 
not  bend 
To    loftier    art,  —  soul    of    defiant 
breath 


That  blindly  stands  and  battles  to  the 
end, 
Nerving  resistance  with  the  throes 
of  death, — 
Majestic  Taurus!  when  thy  wrathful 
eye 
Flamed  brightest,  and  thy  hoofs  a 
moment  stayed 
Their  march  at  Night's  meridian,  I  was 
born : 
But  in  the  western  sky, 
Like  sweet  Europa,  Love's  fair  star 
delayed, 
To  hang  her  garland  on  thy  silver 
horn. 


rv 

Thou  giv'st  that  temper  of  enduring 
mould, 
That  slights  the  wayward  bent  of 
Destiny,  — 
Such  as  sent  forth  the  shaggy  Jarls 
of  old 
To    launch    their    dragons  on   the 
unknown  sea : 
Such  as  keep  strong  the  sinews  of  the 
sword, 
The  proud,  hot  blood  of  battle,  — 
welcome  made 
The  headsman's  axe,   the  rack,   the 
martyr-fire, 

The  ignominious  cord, 
When  but  to  yield,  had  pomps  and 
honors  laid 
On  heads  that  moulder  in  ignoble  mire. 


Night  is  the  summer  when  the  soul 
grows  ripe 
With  Life's  full   harvest:    of  her 
myriad  suns, 
Thou  dost  not  gild  the  quiet  herds- 
man's pipe, 
Nor  royal  state,  that  royal  actions 
shuns. 
But  in  the  noontide  of  thy  ruddy  stars 
Thrive   strength,    and  daring,   and 
the  blood  whence  springs 
The  Heraclidean  seed  of  heroes  ;  then 
W'ere  sundered  Gaza's  bars ; 
Then,    'mid    the    smitten    Hydra's 
loosened  rings, 
His  slayer  rested,  in  the  Lernean  fen. 


AUTUMNAL   VESPERS 


Thine    is    the    subtle    element    that 
turns 
To  fearless  act  the  impulse  of  the 
hour,  — 
The  secret  fire,  whose  flash  electric 
burns 
To  every  .source  of  passion  and  of 
power. 
Therefore  I  hail  thee,  on  thy  glittering 
track  : 
Therefore  I  watch  thee,  when  the 
night  grows  dark, 
Slow-rising,  front  Orion's  sword  along 
The  starry  zodiac, 
And  from  thy  mystic  beam  demand 
a  spark 
To  warm  my  soul  with  more  heroic 
song. 
California,  1849. 


AUTUMNAL  VESPERS 

The  clarion  Wind,  that  blew  so  loud 
at  morn, 
Whirling  a  thousand  leaves  from 

every  bough 
Of    the   purple   woods,    has  not  a 
whisper  now  ; 
Hushed  on  the  uplands  is  the  hunts- 
man's horn, 
And   huskers     whistling     round   the 
tented  corn  : 
The  snug  warm  cricket  lets  his  clock 
run  down, 
Scared  by  the  chill,    sad  hour  that 
makes  forlorn 

The     Autumn's     gold     and 
brown. 

The  light  is  dying   out  on  field  and 
wold  ; 
The  life  is  dying  in  the  leaves  and 

grass. 
The  World's  last  breath  no  longer 
dims  the  glass 
Of  waning  sunset,   yellow,  pale,  and 

♦    coll 
His  genial  pulse,  which  Summer  made 
so  bold, 
Has    ceased.      Haste,    Night,    and 
spread  thy  decent  pall ! 
The    silent,    stiffening    Frost    makes 
havoc  :  fold 

The  darkness  over  all ! 


The  light  is  dying  out  o'er  all  the  land, 
And  in  my  heart  the  light  is  dying. 

She, 
My  life's  best  life,  is  fading  silently 
From  Earth,  from  me,  and  from  the 

dreams  we  planned, 
Since  first  Love  led  us  with  his  beam- 
ing hand 
From   hope  to  hope,   yet  kept  his 
crown  in  store. 
The  light  is  dying  out  o'er  all  the 
land : 

To  me  it  comes  no  more. 

The  blossom  of  my  heart,  she  shrinks 
away, 
Stricken  with  deadly  blight :  more 

wan  and  weak 
Her  love  replies  in   blanching  lip 
and  cheek, 
And  gentler  in  her  dear  eyes,  day  by 

day. 
God,  in  Thy  mercy,  bid  the  arm  de- 
lay, 
Which  through  her  being  smites  to 
dust  my  own ! 
Thou  gav'st  the   seed  thy  sun  and 
showers  ;  why  slay 
The  blossoms  yet  unblown  1 

In  vain,  — in  vain  !     God  will  not  bid 
the  Spring 
Replace  with  sudden  green  the  Au- 
tumn's gold  ; 
And  as   the  night-mists,    gathering 
damp  and  cold, 
Strike  up  the  vales  where  watercourses 

sing, 
Death's  mists  shall  strike  along  her 
veins,  and  cling 
Thenceforth  forever  round  her  glori- 
ous frame : 
For  all  her  radiant  presence,  May  shall 
bring 
A  memory  and  a  name. 

What  know  the  woods,  that  soon  shall 

be  so  stark  ? 
What  know  the  barren  fields,  the 

songless  air, 
Locked     in    benumbing     cold,    of 

blooms  more  fair 
In   mornings   ushered   by    the    April 

lark? 
Weak  solace  this,   which  grief  will 

never  hark ; 


s 


LYRICS 


Blind  as  a  bud  in  stiff  December's 
mail, 
To  lift  her  look  beyond  the  frozen  dark 
No  memory  can  avail. 

I  never  knew  the  autumnal  eves  could 
wear, 
With  all  their  pomp,  so  drear  a  hue 

of  Death ; 
I  never  knew  their  still  and  solemn 
breath 
Could    rob     the    breaking    heart    of 

strength  to  bear, 
Feeding  the  blank  submission  of  de- 
spair. 
Yet,  peace,  sad  soul!  reproach  and 
pity  shine 
Suffused  through  starry  tears:  bend 
thou  in  prayer, 
Rebuked  by  Love  divine. 

Our  life  is  scarce  the  twinkle  of  a  star 
In  God's  eternal  day.     Obscure  and 

dim 
With    mortal    clouds,   it  yet  may 
beam  for  Him, 
And    darkened    here,    shine     fair   to 

spheres  afar. 
I  will  be  patient,  lest  my  sorrow  bar 
His  grace  and  blessing,  and  I  fall 
supine : 
In  my  own  hands  my  want  and  weak- 
ness are,  — 
My     strength,    O     God !    in 
Thine. 

1850. 


ODE  TO  SHELLEY 


Why  art  thou  dead  ?    Upon  the  hills 
once  more 
The  golden  mist  of  waning  Autumn 
lies  ; 
The  slow-pulsed  billows  wash  along 
the  shore, 
And  phantom  isles  are  floating  in 
the  skies. 
They  wait  for  thee :  a  spirit  in  the 
sand 
Hushes,  expectant  for  thy  coming 
tread ; 
The  light  wind  pants  to  lift  thy  trem- 
bling hair ; 
Inward,  the  silent  land 


Lies  with  its  mournful  woods  ;  — 
why  art  thou  dead, 
When  Earth  demands  that  thou  shalt 
call  her  fair  ? 

n 

Why  art  thou  dead  ?    I  too  demand 
thy  song, 
To  speak  the  language  yet  denied  to 
mine, 
Twin-doomed   with  thee,  to  feel  the 
scorn  of  Wrong, 
To  worship  Beauty  as  a  thing  di- 
vine ! 
Thou  art    afar:   wilt  thou  not   soon 
return 
To  tell  me  that  which  thou  hast 
never  told  ? 
To  clasp  my  throbbing  hand,  and,  by 
the  shore 

Or  dewy  mountain-fern, 
Pour  out  thy  heart  as  to  a  friend  of 
old, 
Touched   with    a  twilight    sadness? 
Nevermore. 


I  could  have  told  thee  all  the  sylvan 
joy 
Of  trackless  woods;  the  meadows 
far  apart, 
Within  whose  fragrant  grass,  a  lonely 
boy, 
I  thought  of  God  ;  the  trumpet  at 
my  heart, 
When  on  bleak  mountains  roared  the 
midnight  storm, 
And   I   was    bathed  in    lightning, 
broad  and  grand : 
Oh,  more  than  all,  with  soft  and  rever- 
ent breath 
And  forehead  flushing  warm, 
I  would  have  led  thee  through  the 
summer  land 
Of  early  Love,  and  past  my  dreams  of 
Death ! 

IV 

In  thee,   Immortal    Brother!    had  I 
found 
That  Voice  of  Earth,  that  fails  my 
feebler  lines  : 
The  awful  speech  of  Rome's  sepulchral 
ground ; 
The  dusky  hymn  of  Vallombrosa's 
pines ! 


SICILIAN    WINE 


From  thee  the  noise  of  Ocean  would 
have  taken 
A  grand  defiance  round  the  moveless 
shores, 
And  vocal  grown  the  Mountain's  silent 
heacT: 

Canst  thou  not  yet  awaken 
Beneath  the  funeral  cypress  ?  Earth 
implores 
Thy  presence  for  her  son  ;  —  why  art 
thou  dead  ? 


I  do  but  rave  :  for  it  is  better  thus. 
Were  once  thy  starry  nature  given 
to  mine, 
In  the  one  life  which  would  encircle 
us 
My  voice  would  melt,  my  soul  be 
lost  in  thine. 
Better  to  bear  the  far  sublimer  pain 
Of  Thought  that  has  not  ripened 
into  speech, 
To  hear  in  silence  Truth  and  Beauty 
sing 
Divinely  to  the  brain  ; 
For  thus  the  Poet  at  the  last  shall 
reach 
His  own  soul's  voice,  nor  crave  a  bro- 
ther's string. 

1848. 


SICILIAN  WINE 

I  've  drunk  Sicilia's  crimson  wine ! 
The  blazing  vintage  pressed 
From  grapes  on  Etna's  breast, 
What  time  the  mellowing  autumn  sun 

did  shine : 
I  've  drunk  the  wine  ! 
I  feel  its  blood  divine 
Poured  on  the  sluggish  tide  of  mine, 
Till,  kindling  slow, 
Its  fountains  glow 
With  the  light  that  swims 
On  their  trembling  brims, 
And  a  molten  sunrise  floods  my  limbs! 
AVhat  do  I  here  ? 
I've  drunk  the  wine, 
And  lo  !  the  bright  blue  heaven    is 

clear 
Above  the  ocean's  bluer  sphere, 
Seen    through    the    long   arcades  of 

pine, 
Inwoven  and  arched  with  vine  ! 


The  glades  are  green  below  ; 

The  temple  shines  afar ; 

Above,  old  Etna's  snow 

Sparkles  with  many  an  icy  star  : 

I  see  the  mountain  and  its  marble 
wall, 

Where  gleaming  waters  fall 

And  voices  call, 

Singing  and  calling 

Like  chorals  falling 

Through  pearly  doors  of  some  Olym- 
pian hall, 

Where  Love  holds  bacchanal. 

Sicilian  wine !  Sicilian  wine ! 

Summer,  and  Music,  and  Song  divine 

Are  thine,  —  all  thine ! 

A  sweet  wind  over  the  roses  plays  ; 

The  wild  bee  hums  at  my  languid  ear  ; 

The  mute-winged  moth  serenely  strays 

On  the  downy  atmosphere, 

Like  hovering  Sleep,  that  overweighs 

My  lids  with  his  shadow,  yet  comes 
not  near. 

Who  '11  share  with  me  this  languor  ? 

With  me  the  juice  of  Etna  sip  ? 

Who  press  the  goblet's  lip, 

Refusing  mine  the  while  with  love's 
enchanting  anger  ? 

Would  I  were  young  Adonis  now ! 

With  what  an  ardor  bold 

Within  my  arms  I  'd  fold 

Fair  Aphrodite  of  Idalian  mould, 

And  let  the  locks  that  hide  her  gleam- 
ing brow 

Fall  o'er  my  shoulder  as  she  lay 

With  the  fair  swell  of  her  immortal 
breast 

Upon  my  bosom  pressed, 

Giving  Olympian  thrills  to  its  enam- 
ored clay ! 

Bacchus  and  Pan  have  fled : 

No  heavy  Satyr  crushes  with  his  tread 

The  verdure  of  the  meadow  ground, 

But  in  their  stead 

The  Nymphs  are  leading  a  bewilder- 
ing round, 

Vivid  and  light,  as  o'er  some  flowering 
rise 

A  dance  of  butterflies, 

Their  tossing  hair  with  slender  lilies 
crowned, 

And  greener  ivy  than  o'erran 

The  brows  of  Bacchus  and  the  reed  of 
Pan! 


IO 


LYRICS 


I  faint,  I  die  : 

The  flames  expire, 

That  made  my  blood  a  lurid  fire  : 

Steeped  in  delicious  weariness  I  lie. 

Oh  lay  me  in  some  pearled  shell, 

Soft-balanced  on  the  rippling  sea, 

Where  sweet,  cheek-kissing  airs  may 

wave 
Their  fresh  wings  over  me ; 
Let  me  be  wafted  with  the  swell 
Of  Nereid  voices :  let  no  billow  rave 
To  break  the  cool  green  crystal  of  the 

sea. 
For  I  will  wander  free 
Past  the  blue  islands  and  the  fading 

shores, 
To  Calpe  and  the  far  Azores, 
And  still  beyond,  and  wide  away, 
Beneath  the  dazzling  wings  of  tropic 

day, 
Where,  on  unruffled  seas, 
Sleep  the  green  isles  of  the  Hesperides. 

The  Triton's  trumpet  calls  : 
I  hear,  I  wake,  I  rise  : 
The  sound  peals  up  the  skies 
And  mellowed  Echo  falls 
In  answer  back  from  Heaven's  ceru- 
lean walls. 
Give  me  the  lyre  that  Orpheus  played 

upon, 
Or  bright  Hyperion,  — 
Nay,  rather  come,  thou  of  the  mighty 

bow, 
Come  thou  below, 

Leaving  thy  steeds  unharnessed  go! 
Sing  as  thou  wilt,  my  voice  shall  dare 

to  follow, 
And  I  will   sun  me  in  thine  awful 

glow, 
Divine  Apollo ! 

Then  thou  thy  lute  shalt  twine 
With  Bacchic  tendrils  of  the  glorious 

vine 
That  gave  Sicilian  wine : 
And    henceforth    when    the    breezes 

run 
Over    its    clusters,    ripening    in    the 

sun, 
The  leaves  shall  still  be  playing, 
Unto  thy  lute  its  melody  repaying, 
And  I,  that  quaff,  shall  evermore  be 

free 
To  mount  thy  car  and  ride  the  heavens 

with  thee ! 

1848. 


STORM-LINES 

When  the  rains  of  November  are  dark 
on  the  hills,  and  the  pine-trees 
incessantly  roar 

To  the  sound  of  the  wind-beaten  crags, 
and  the  floods  that  in  foam 
through  their  black  channels 
pour  : 

When  the  breaker-lined  coast  stretches 
dimly  afar  through  the  desolate 
waste  of  the  gale, 

And  the  clang  of  the  sea-gull  at  night- 
fall is  heard  from  the  deep,  like 
a  mariner's  wail : 

When  the  gray  sky  drops  low,  and 
the  forest  is  bare,  and  the  la- 
borer is  housed  from  the  storm, 

And  the  world  is  a  blank,  save  the 
light  of  his  home  through  the 
gust  shining  redly  and  warm :  — 

Go  thou  forth,   if  the  brim  of  thy 

heart  with  its  tropical  fulness 

of  life  overflow,  — 
If  the  sun  of  thy  bliss  in  the  zenith 

is  hung,  nor  a  shadow  reminds 

thee  of  woe ! 

Leave  the  home  of  thy  love ;  leave 
thy  labors  of  fame ;  in  the  rain 
and  the  darkness  go  forth, ' 

When  the  cold  winds  unpausingly 
wail  as  they  drive  from  the 
cheerless  expanse  of  the  North. 

Thou  shalt  turn  from  the  cup  that 
was  mantling  before ;  thou 
shalt  hear  the  eternal  despair 

Of  the  hearts  that  endured  and  were 
broken  at  last,  from  the  hills 
and  the  sea  and  the  air ! 

Thou  shalt  hear  how  the  Earth,  the 
maternal,  laments  for  the  chil- 
dren she  nurtured  with  tears,  — 

How  the  forest  but  deepens  its  wail 
and  the  breakers  their  roar,  with 
the  march  of  the  years  ! 

Then  the  gleam  of  thy  hearth-fire  shall 
dwindle  away,  and  the  lips  of 
thy  loved  ones  be  still ; 


STORM    SONG 


T  I 


And  thy  soul  shall  lament  in  the  moan 
of  the  storm,  sounding  wide  on 
the  shelterless  hill. 

All  the  woes  of  existence  shall  stand 
at  thy  heart,  and  the  sad  eyes 
of  myriads  implore, 

In  the  darkness  and  storm  of  their 
being,  the  ray,  streaming  out 
through  thy  radiant  door. 

Look  again :  how  that  star  of  thy  Para- 
dise dims,  through  the  warm 
tears,  unwittingly  shed ;  — 

Thou  art  man,  and  a  sorrow  so  bitterly 
wrung  never  fell  on  the  dust  of 
the  Dead ! 

Let  the  rain  of  the  midnight  beat  cold 
on  thy  cheek,  and  the  proud 
pulses  chill  in  thy  frame, 

Till  the  love  of  thy  bosom  is  grateful 
and  sad,  and  thou  turn'st  from 
the  mockery  of  Fame ! 

Take  with  humble  acceptance  the  gifts 
of  thy  life;  let  thy  joy  touch 
the  fountain  of  tears ; 

For  the  soul  of  the  Earth,  in  endur- 
ance and  pain,  gathers  promise 
of  happier  years ! 
1849. 


THE  TWO  VISIONS 

Thuough  days  of  toil,  through  nightly 

fears, 
A  vision  blessed  my  heart  for  years ; 
And  so  secure  its  features  grew, 
My  heart  believed  the  blessing  true. 

I  saw  her  there,  a  household  dove, 
In  consummated  peace  of  love, 
And  sweeter  joy  and  saintlier  grace 
Breathed  o'er  the  beauty  of  her  face  : 

The  joy  and  grace  of  love  at  rest, 
The  fireside  music  of  the  breast, 
When  vain  desires  and  restless  schemes 
Sleep,  pillowed  on  our  early  dreams. 

Nor  her  alone  :  beside  her  stood, 
In  gentler  types,  our  love  renewed  ; 
Our  separate  beings  one,  in  Birth,  — 
The  darling  miracles  of  Earth. 


The    mother's    smile,    the  children's 

kiss, 
And  home's  serene,  abounding  bliss  ; 
The  fruitage  of  a  life  that  bore 
But  idle  summer  blooms  before  : 

Such  was  the  vision,  far  and  sweet, 
That,  still  beyond  Time's  lagging  feet, 
Lay    glimmering    in    my    heart    for 

years, 
Dim  with  the  mist  of  happy  tears. 

That  vision  died,  in  drops  of  woe, 
In  blotting  drops,  dissolving  slow  : 
Now,  toiling  day  and  sorrowing  night, 
Another  vision  fills  my  sight. 

A  cold  mound  in  the  winter  snow ; 
A  colder  heart  at  rest  below  ; 
A  life  in  utter  loneness  hurled, 
And  darkness  over  all  the  world. 

1850. 


STORM  SONG 

The  clouds  are  scudding  across  the 
moon, 
A  misty  light  is  on  the  sea  ; 
The  wind  in  the  shrouds  has  a  wintry 
tune, 
And  the  foam  is  flying  free. 

Brothers,     a    night    of    terror     and 
gloom 
Speaks  in  the  cloud  and  gathering 
roar ; 
Thank  God,  He  has  given  us  broad 
sea-room, 
A  thousand  miles  from  shore. 

Down  with  the  hatches  on  those  who 
sleep ! 
The  wild  and  whistling  deck  have 
we  ; 
Good  watch,   my  brothers,   to-night 
we  '11  keep, 
While  the  tempest  is  on  the  sea ! 

Though  the   rigging    shriek    in   his 
terrible  grip, 
And  the  naked  spars  be  snapped 
away. 
Lashed  to  the  helm,  we  '11  drive  our 
ship 
In  the  teeth  of  the  whelming  spray ! 


12 


LYRICS 


Hark!  how  the  surges  o'erleap  the 
deck! 
Hark!    how    the    pitiless    tempest 
raves ! 
Ah,  daylight  will  look  upon  many  a 
wreck 
Drifting  over  the  desert  waves. 

Yet,  courage,  brothers !    we  trust  the 
wave, 
With   God  above  us,  our  guiding 
chart : 
So,  whether  to  harbor  or  ocean-grave, 
Be  it  still  with  a  cheery  heart! 

Gulf  of  Mexico,  1850. 


SONG 

I  plucked  for  thee  the  wilding  rose 

And  wore  it  on  my  breast, 
And     there,     till    daylight's    dusky 
close, 

Its  silken  cheek  was  pressed  ; 
Its  desert  breath  was  sweeter  far 

Than  palace-rose  could  be, 
Sweeter    than    all    Earth's    blossoms 
are, 

But  that  thou  gav'st  to  me. 

I  kissed  its  leaves,  in  fond  despite 

Of  lips  that  failed  my  own, 
And  Love  recalled  that  sacred  night 

His  blushing  flower  was  blown. 
I  vowed,  no  rose  should  rival  mine, 

Though  withered  now,  and  pale, 
Till  those  are  plucked,   whose  white 
buds  twine 

Above  thy  bridal  veil. 

1849. 


THE  WAYES 


Children  are  we 

Of  the  restless  sea, 
Swelling  in  anger  or  sparkling  in  glee ; 

We  follow  our  race, 

In  shifting  chase, 
Over  the  boundless  ocean-space ! 
Who  hath  beheld  where  the  race  be- 
gun ? 

Who  shall  behold  it  run  ? 

Who  shall  behold  it  run  ? 


When  the  smooth  airs  keep 
Their  noontide  sleep, 
We  dimple  the  cheek  of  the  dreaming 
deep  ; 
When  the  rough  winds  come, 
From  their  cloudy  home, 
At  the  tap  of  the  hurricane's  thunder- 
drum, 
Deep  are  the  furrows  of  wrath  we 
plough, 
Bidging  his  darkened  brow ! 
Bidging  his  darkened  brow ! 


Over  us  born, 
The  unclouded  Morn 
Trumpets  her  joy  with  the  Triton's 
horn, 
And  sun  and  star 
By  the  thousand  are 
Orbed    in  our    glittering,   near    and 

far: 
And  the  splendor  of  Heaven,  the  pomp 
of  Day, 
Shine  in  our  laughing  spray ! 
Shine  in  our  laughing  spray  ! 

IV 

We  murmur  our  spell 

Over  sand  and  shell ; 
We  girdle  the  reef  with  a  combing 
swell ; 

And  bound  in  the  vice, 

Of  the  Arctic  ice, 
We  build  us  a  palace  of  grand  de- 
vice— 
Walls  of  crystal  and  splintered  spires, 

Flashing  with  diamond  fires ! 

Flashing  with  diamond  fires! 


In  the  endless  round 
Of  our  motion  and  sound, 
The  fairest    dwelling  of    Beauty    is 
found, 
And  with  voice  of  strange 
And  solemn  change, 
The  elements  speak  in  our  world-wide 

range, 
Harping  the  terror,    the  might,  the 
mirth, 
Sorrows  and  hopes  of  Earth ! 
Sorrows  and  hopes  of  Earth ! 

1850. 


THE   WAYSIDE   DREAM 


13 


SONG 

From:    the   bosom  of    ocean   I    seek 
thee, 
Thou  lamp  of  my  spirit  afar, 
As  the  seaman,  adrift  in  the  dark- 
ness, 
Looks  up  for  the  beam  of  his  star ; 
And  when  on  the  moon-lighted  water 

The  spirits  of  solitude  sleep, 
Iffy  soul,  in  the  light  of  thy  beauty, 
'Lies  hushed  as  the  waves  of  the 
deep. 

As  the  shafts  of  the  sunrise  are  broken 

Far  over  the  glittering  sea, 
Thou  hast  dawned  on  the  waves  of 
my  dreaming, 
And  each  thought  has  a  sparkle  of 
thee. 
And  though,  with  the  white  sail  dis- 
tended, 
I  speed  from  the  vanishing  shore, 
Thou  wilt  give  to  the  silence  of  ocean 
The  spell  of  thy  beauty  the  more. 

Gulf  of  Mexico,  1850. 


SONNET 

TO   G.    H.    B. 

Yor  comfort  me  as  one  that,  knowing 
Fate, 

Would  paint  her  visage  kinder  than 
you  deem  ; 

You  say,  my  only  bliss  that  is  no 
dream 

She  clouds,  but  makes  not  wholly 
desolate. 

Ah,  Friend !  your  heart  speaks  words 
of  little  weight 

To  veil  that  sadder  knowledge,  learned 
in  song, 

And  'gainst  your  solace  Grief  has 
made  me  strong : 

The  Gods  are  jealous  of  our  low  es- 
tate; 

They  give  not  Fame  to  Love,  nor 
Love  to  Fame ; 

Power  cannot  taste  the  joy  the  hum- 
bler share, 

Nor  holy  Beauty  breathe  in  Luxury's 
air, 

And  all  in  darkness  Genius  feeds  his 
flame. 


"We  build  and  build,  poor  fools!  and 

all  the  while 
Some  Demon  works  unseen,  and  saps 

the  pile. 


1S50. 


THE  WAYSIDE  DREAM 

The  deep  and  lordly  Danube 

Goes  winding  far  below ; 
I  see  the  white -walled  hamlets 

Amid  his  vineyards  glow, 
And  southward,   through  the  ether, 
shine 

The  Styrian  hills  of  snow. 

O'er  many  a  league  of  landscape 
Sleeps  the  warm  haze  of  noon  ; 

The  wooing  winds  come  freighted 
With  messages  of  June, 

And  down  among  the  corn  and  flow- 
ers 
I  hear  the  water's  tune. 

The  meadow-lark  is  singing, 

As  if  it  still  were  morn; 
Within  the  dark  pine-forest 

The  hunter  winds  his  horn, 
And   the   cuckoo's  shy,   complaining 
note 

Mocks  the  maidens  in  the  corn. 

I  watch  the  cloud-armada 

Go  sailing  up  the  sky, 
Lulled   by  the  murmuring  mountain 
grass 
Upon  whose  bed  I  lie, 
And    the    faint    sound   of    noonday 
chimes 
That  in  the  distance  die. 

A  warm  and  drowsy  sweetness 

Is  stealing  o'er  my  brain  ; 
I  see  no  more  the  Danube 

Sweep  through  his  royal  plain  ; 
I  hear  no  more  the  peasant  girls 

Singing  amid  the  grain. 

Soft,  silvery  wings,  a  moment 
Have  swept  across  my  brow: 

Again  I  hear  the  water, 
But  its  voice  is  sweeter  now, 

And  the  mocking-bird  and  oriole 
Are  singing  on  the  bough  ; 


14 


LYRICS 


The  elm  and  linden  branches 
Droop  close  and  dark  o'erhead, 

And  the  foaming  forest  brooklet 
Leaps  down  its  rocky  bed  : 

Be  still,  my  heart !  the  seas  are  passed, 
The  paths  of  home  I  tread ! 

The  showers  of  creamy  blossoms 

Are  on  the  linden  spray, 
And  down  the  clover  meadow 

They  heap  the  scented  hay, 
And  glad  winds  toss  the  forest  leaves, 

All  the  bright  summer  day. 

Old  playmates !  bid  me  welcome 

Amid  your  brother-band ; 
Give  me  the  old  affection, — 

The  glowing  grasp  of  hand ! 
I  seek  no  more  the  realms  of  old, — 

Here  is  my  Fatherland ! 

Come  hither,  gentle  maiden, 
Who  weep'st  in  tender  joy! 

The  rapture  of  thy  presence 
Repays  the  world's  annoy, 

And  calms  the  wild  and  ardent  heart 
Which  warms  the  wandering  boy. 

In  many  a  mountain  fastness, 

By  many  a  river's  foam, 
And  through  ihe  gorgeous  cities, 

'T  was  loneliness  to  roam  ; 
For  the  sweetest  music  in  my  heart 

Was  the  olden  songs  of  home. 

Ah,  glen  and  grove  are  vanished, 
And  friends  have  faded  now ! 

.  The  balmy  Styrian  breezes 
Are  blowing  on  my  brow, 

And  sounds  again  the  cuckoo's  call 
From  the  forest's  inmost  bough. 

Fled  is  that  happy  vision,  — 
The  gates  of  slumber  fold ; 

I  rise  and  journey  onward 

Through  valleys  green  and  old, 

Where  the  far,  white  Alps  announce 
the  morn, 
And  keep  the  sunset's  gold. 

Upper  Austria,  1845. 

STEYERMARK 

In  Steyermark,  —  green  Steyermark, 
The  fields  are  bright  and  the  forests 
dark,  — 


Bright  with  the  maids  that  bind  the 
sheaves, 

Dark  with  the  arches  (rf  whispering 
leaves. 

Voices  and  streams  and  sweet  bells 
chime 

Over  the  land,  in  the  harvest-time, 

And  the  blithest  songs  of  the  finch  and 
lark 

Are  heard  in  the  orchards  of  Steyer- 
mark. 

In  Steyermark,  —  old  Steyermark, 

The  mountain  summits  are  white  and 
stark ; 

The'  rough  winds  furrow  their  track- 
less snow, 

But  the  mirrors  of  crystal  are  smooth 
below  ; 

The  stormy  Danube  clasps  the  wave 

That  downward  sweeps  with  the  Drave 
and  Save, 

And  the  Euxine  is  whitened  with  many 
a  bark, 

Freighted  with  ores  of  Steyermark  ! 

In  Steyermark,  —  rough  Steyermark, 
The  anvils  ring  from  dawn  till  dark ; 
The  molten  streams  of  the  furnace 

glare, 
Blurring  with  crimson  the  midnight 

air ; 
The  lusty  voices  of  forgemen  chord, 
Chanting    the    ballad  of    Siegfried's 

Sword, 
While  the  hammers  swung  by  their 

arms  so  stark 
Strike  to  the  music  of  Steyermark  ! 

In  Steyermark,  —  dear  Steyermark, 
Each  heart  is  light  as  the  morning  lark ; 
There  men  are  framed  in  the  manly 

mould 
Of  their  stalwart  sires,  of  the  times  of 

old, 
And  the  sunny  blue  of  the  Styrian  sky 
Grows  soft  in  the  timid  maiden's  eye, 
When  love  descends  with  the  twilight 

dark, 
In  the  beechen  groves  of  Steyermark. 

1848. 

TO  A  BAVARIAN  GIRL 

Thotj,  Bavaria's  brown-eyed  daughter, 
Art  a  shape  of  joy, 


A   BACCHIC   ODE 


i5 


Standing  by  the  Isar's  water 

With  thy  brother-boy ; 
In  thy  dream,  with  idle  fingers 

Threading  through  his  curls, 
On  thy  cheek  the  sun's  kiss  lingers, 

Rosiest  of  girls  ! 

Woods  of  glossy  oak  are  ringing 

With  the  echoes  bland, 
While  thy  generous  voice  is  singing 

Songs  of  Fatherland,  — 
Songs,  that  by  the  Danube's  river 

Sound  on  hills  of  vine, 
And  where  waves  in  green  light  quiver, 

Down  the  rushing  Rhine. 

Life,  with  all  its  hues  and  changes, 

To  thy  heart  doth  lie 
Like  those  dreamy  Alpine  ranges 

In  the  southern  sky  ; 
Where  in  haze  the  clefts  are  hidden, 

Which  the  foot  should  fear, 
And  the  crags  that  fall  unbidden 

Startle  not  the  ear. 

Where  the  village  maidens  gather 

At  the  fountain's  brim, 
Or  in  sunny  harvest  weather, 

With  the  reapers  trim  ; 
Where  the  autumn  fires  are  burning 

On  the  vintage-hills ; 
Where  the  mossy  wheels  are  turning 

In  the  ancient  mills  ; 

Where  from  ruined  robber -towers 

Hangs  the  ivy's  hair, 
And  the  crimson  foxbell  flowers 

On  the  crumbling  stair :  — 
Everywhere,  without  thy  presence, 

Would  the  sunshine  fail. 
Fairest  of  the  maiden  peasants  ! 

Flower  of  Isar's  vale ! 

Munich,  1845. 


IN  ITALY 

Deah  Lillian,  all  I  wished  is  won  ! 

I  sit  beneath  Italia's  sun, 

Where     olive-orchards      gleam    and 

quiver 
Along  the  banks  of  Arno's  river. 

Through  laurel  leaves,  the  dim  green 

light 
Falls  on  my  forehead  as  I  write, 


And  the  sweet  chimes  of  vesper,  ring- 
ing, 
Blend  with  the  contadina's  singing. 

Rich  is  the  soil  with  Fancy's  gold  ; 
The  stirring  memories  of  old 
Rise  thronging  in  my  haunted  vision, 
And  wake  my  spirit's  young  ambition. 

But  as  the  radiant  sunsets  close 
Above  Val  d' Arno's  bowers  of  rose, 
My  soul  forgets  the  olden  glory, 
And  deems  our  love  a  dearer  story. 

Thy  words,  in  Memory's  ear,  outchime 
The  music  of  the  Tuscan  rhyme  ; 
Thou     standest     here  —  the    gentle- 
hearted  — 
Amid  the  shades  of  bards  departed. 

I  see  before  thee  fade  away 
Their  garlands  of  immortal  bay, 
And  turn  from    Petrarch's    passion- 
glances 
To  my  own  dearer  heart-romances. 

Sad  is  the  opal  glow  that  fires 
The  midnight  of  the  cypress  spires, 
And  cold  the  scented  wind  that  closes 
The  heart  of  bright  Etruscan  roses. 

A  single  thought  of  thee  effaced 
The  fair  Italian  dream  I  chased  ; 
For  the  true  clime  of  song  and  sun 
Lies  in  the  heart  which  mine  hath  won ! 
Florence,  1845. 


A  BACCHIC   ODE 

Wine,  —  bring  wine ! 

Let  the  crystal  beaker  flame  and  shine, 

Brimming  o'er  with  the  draught  divine! 

The  crimson  glow 

Of  the  lifted  cup  on  my  forehead  throw, 

Like  the  sunset's  flush  on  a  field  of 


I  love  to  lave 

My  thirsty  lip  in  the  ruddy  wave  ; 

Freedom  bringeth  the  wine  so  brave ! 

The  world  is  cold  : 

Sorrow  and  pain  have  gloomy  hold, 

Chilling  the  bosom  warm  and  bold. 


i6 


LYRICS 


Doubts  and  fears 

Veil  the  shine  of  my  morning  years,  — 
My  life's  lone  rainbow  springs  from 
tears. 

But  Eden-gleams 
Visit  my  soul  in  immortal  dreams, 
When  the  wave  of  the  goblet  burns 
and  beams. 

Not  from  the  Rhine, 

Not  from  fields  of  Burgundian  vine, 

Bring  me  the  bright  Olympian  wine  ! 

Not  with  a  ray 

Born    where    the    winds    of    Shiraz 

play, 
Or  the  fiery  blood  of  the  bright  Tokay. 

Not  where  the  glee 

Of  Falernian  vintage  echoes  free, 

Or  the  Chian  gardens  gem  the  sea. 

But  wine,  — bring  wine, 

Royally  flushed  with  its  growth  di- 
vine, 

In  the  crystal  depth  of  my  soul  to 
shine ! 

Whose  glow  was  caught 

From  the  warmth  which  Fancy's  sum- 
mer brought 

To  the  vintage -fields  in  the  Land  of 
Thought. 

Rich  and  free 

To  my  thirsting  soul  will  the  goblet 

be, 
Poured  by  the  Hebe,  Poesy. 

1847. 


A  FUNERAL  THOUGHT 


When  the  stern  Genius,  to  whose  hol- 
low tramp 
Echo  the  startled  chambers  of  the 
soul, 

Waves  his  inverted  torch  o'er  that  pale 
camp 
Where  the  archangel's  final  trum- 
pets roll, 

I  would  not  meet  him  in  the  chamber 
dim, 


Hushed,  and  pervaded  with  a  name- 
less fear, 
When    the  breath    flutters    and    the 
senses  swim, 

And  the  dread  hour  is  near. 

ii 

Though  Love's  dear  arms  might  clasp 
me  fondly  then 
As  if  to  keep    the   Summoner    at 
bay, 
And  woman's  woe  and  the  calm  grief 
of  men 
Hallow  at  last  the  chill,  unbreathing 
clay — 
These  are  Earth's  fetters,  and  the  soul 
would  shrink, 
Thus  bound,  from  Darkness  and  the 
dread  Unknown, 
Stretching  its  arms  from  Death's  eter- 
nal brink, 
Which  it  must  dare  alone. 

in 

But  in  the  awful  silence  of  the  sky, 
Upon   some  mountain  summit,  yet 
untrod, 
Through  the  blue  ether  would  I  climb, 
to  die 
Afar  from  mortals  and  alone  with 
God! 
To  the  pure  keeping  of  the  stainless 
air 
Would  I  resign  my  faint  and  flutter- 
ing breath, 
And  with  the  rapture  of  an  answered 
prayer 
Receive  the  kiss  of  Death. 


Then  to  the  elements  my  frame  would 
turn ; 
No  worms  should  riot  on  my  coffined 
clay, 
But  the  cold  limbs,  from  that  sepul- 
chral urn, 
In  the  slow   storms  of  ages  waste 
away. 
Loud  winds  and  thunder's  diapason 
high 
Should  be  my  requiem  through  the 
coming  time, 
And  the  white  summit,  fading  in  the 
sky, 
My  monument  sublime. 

1847. 


THE   CONTINENTS 


r7 


THE  NORSEMAN'S  RIDE 

The    frosty  fires    of  Northern   star- 
light 
Gleamed  on  the  glittering  snow, 
And     through     the     forest's    frozen 
branches 
The  shrieking  winds  did  blow  ; 
A  floor  of  blue,  translucent  marble 

Kept  ocean's  pulses  still, 
When,   in   the  depth  of  dreary  mid- 
night, 
Opened  the  burial  hill. 

Then  while  a  low  and  creeping  shud- 
der 
Thrilled     upward      through      the 
ground, 
The  Norseman  came,  as  armed  for  bat- 
tle, 
In  silence  from  his  mound  : 
He,  who  was  mourned  in  solemn  sor- 
row 
By  many  a  swordsman  bold, 
And  harps  that  wailed  along  the  ocean, 
Struck  by  the  Skalds  of  old. 

Sudden,  a  swift  and  silver  shadow 

Rushed  up  from  out  the  gloom,  — 
A  horse  that  stamped  with  hoof  impa- 
tient, 
Yet  noiseless,  on  the  tomb. 
11  Ha,  Surtur!  let  me  hear  thy  tramp- 
ing, 
Thou  noblest  Northern  steed, 
Whose  neigh  along  the  stormy  head- 
lands 
Bade  the  bold  Viking  heed !  " 

He  mounted :  like  a  north-light  streak- 
ing 
The  sky  with  flaming  bars, 
They,  on  the  winds  so  wildly  shriek- 
ing, 
Shot  up  before  the  stars. 
"Is  this  thy  mane,  my  fearless  Surtur, 

That  streams  against  my  breast  ? 
Is  this  thy  neck,  that  curve  of  moon- 
light, 
Which  Helva's  hand  caressed  ? 

"  No  misty  breathing  strains  thy  nos- 
tril, 

Thine  eye  shines  blue  and  cold, 
Yet,  mounting  up  our  airy  pathway, 

I  see  thy  hoofs  of  gold ! 


Not  lighter  o'er  the  springing  rainbow 

Walhalla's  gods  repair, 
Than  we,  in  sweeping  journey  over 

The  bending  bridge  of  air. 

"Far,   far    around,     star-gleams  are 
sparkling 
Amid  the  twilight  space  ; 
And  Earth,  that  lay  so  cold  and  dark- 
ling, 
Has  veiled  her  dusky  face. 
Are  those  the  Nornes  that  beckon  on- 
ward 
To  seats  at  Odin's  board, 
Where  nightly  by  the  hands  of  heroes 
The  foaming  mead  is  poured  ? 

"  'T  is  Skuld!  her  star-eye  speaks  the 
glory 

That  waits  the  warrior's  soul, 
When  on  its  hinge  of  music  opens 

The  gatewajr  of  the  Pole,  — 
When  Odin's  warder  leads  the  hero 

To  banquets  never  done, 
And  Freya's  eyes  outshine  in  summer 

The  ever-risen  sun. 

' '  On  !    on !    the   Northern  lights  are 
streaming 

In  brightness  like  the  morn, 
And  pealing  far  amid  the  vastness, 

I  hear  the  Gjallarhorn  : 
The  heart  of  starry  space  is  throbbing 

With  songs  of  minstrels  old, 
And  now,  on  high  Walhalla's  portal, 

Gleam  Surtur's  hoofs  of  gold!  " 

1846. 

THE  CONTINENTS 

I  had  a  vision  in  that  solemn  hour, 

Last  of  the  year  sublime, 
Whose  wave  sweeps  downward,  with 
its  dying  power 

Rippling  the  shores  of  Time. 
On  the  bleak  margin  of  that  hoary  sea 

My  spirit  stood  alone, 
Watching  the  gleams  of  phantom  His- 
tory, 

Which  through  the  darkness  shone. 

Then,    when    the    bell    of   midnight 

ghostly  hands 
Tolled  for  the  dead  year's  doom, 
I  saw  the  spirits  of  Earth's  ancient 

lands 


i8 


LYRICS 


Stand  up  amid  the  gloom  ! 
The  crowned  deities,  whose  reign  be- 
gan 
In  the  forgotten  Past, 
When  first  the  fresh  world   gave  to 
sovereign  Man 
Her  empires  green  and  vast. 

First  queenly  Asia,  from  the  fallen 
thrones 
Of  twice  three  thousand  years, 
Came  with  the  woe  a  grieving  goddess 
owns, 
Who  longs  for  mortal  tears. 
The  dust  of  ruin  to  her  mantle  clung 
And  dimmed  her  crown  of  gold, 
While  the  majestic  sorrows  of    her 
tongue 
From  Tyre  to  Indus  rolled  : 

' '  Mourn  with  me,  sisters,  in  my  realm 
of  woe, 

Whose  only  glory  streams 
From  its  lost  childhood,  like  the  arctic 
glow 

Which  sunless  Winter  dreams! 
In  the  red  desert  moulders  Babylon, 

And  the  wild  serpent's  hiss 
Echoes  in  Petra's  palaces  of  stone, 

And  waste  Persepolis. 

' '  Gone  are  the  deities  that  ruled  en- 
shrined 
In  Elephanta's  caves. 
And  Brahma's  wailings  fill  the  fragrant 
wind 
That  ripples  Ganges'  waves : 
The  ancient  gods  amid  their  temples 
fall, 
And  shapes  of  some  near  doom, 
Trembling  and  waving  on  the  Future's 
wall, 
More  fearful  make  my  gloom  !  " 

Then,  from  her  seat,  amid  the  palms 
embowered 
That  shade  the  lion-land, 
Swart  Africa  in  dusky  aspect  tow- 
ered, 
The  fetters  on  her  hand ! 
Backward  she  saw,  from  out  her  drear 
eclipse, 
The  mighty  Theban  years, 
And  the  deep  anguish  of  her  mournful 
lips 
Interpreted  her  tears. 


"Woe  for  my  children,  whom  your 
gyves  have  bound 
Through  centuries  of  toil ; 
The  bitter  wailings  of  whose  bondage 
sound 
From  many  an  alien  soil ! 
Leave  me  but  free,  though  the  eternal 
sand 
Be  all  my  kingdom  now,  — 
Though  the  rude  splendors  of  barbaric 
land 
But  mock  my  crownless  brow ! " 

There  was  a  sound,  like  sudden  trum- 
pets blown, 
A  ringing,  as  of  arms, 
When  Europe  rose,  a  stately  amazon, 

Stern  in  her  mailed  charms. 
She  brooded  long  beneath  the  weary 
bars 
That  chafed  her  soul  of  flame, 
And  like  a  seer,  who  reads  the  awful 
stars, 
Her  words  prophetic  came : 

' '  I  hear  new  sounds  along  the  ancient 
shore, 
Whose  dull  old  monotone 
Of  tides,  that  broke  on  many  a  system 
hoar, 
Moaned  through  the  ages  lone : 
I  see  a   gleaming,   like   the  crimson 
morn 
Beneath  a  stormy  sky, 
And  warning  throes,  which  long  my 
breast  has  borne, 
Proclaim  the  struggle  nigh." 

O  radiant-browed,  the  latest  born  of 
Time! 
How  waned  thy  sisters  old, 
Before  the  splendors  of  thine  eye  sub- 
lime, 
And  mien  erect  and  bold ! 
Free,  as  the  winds  of  thine  own  forests 
are, 
Thy  brow  beamed  lofty  cheer, 
And  Day's  bright  oriflamme,  the  Morn- 
ing Star, 
Flashed  on  thy  lifted  spear. 

"I  bear  no  weight "  —  rang  thine  ex- 
ulting tones  — 

' '  Of  memories  weird  and  vast ; 
No  crushing  heritage  of  iron  thrones, 

Bequeathed  by  some  dead  Past ; 


MANUELA 


19 


But   hopes,   that    give  my  children 

power  to  climb 

Above  the  old-world  fears  — 

Whose  prophecies  forerun  the  latest 

time, 

And  lead  the  crowning  years ! 

"  Like  spectral  lamps,  that  burn  be- 
fore a  tomb, 
The  ancient  lights  expire  ; 
I  hold  a  torch,  that  floods  the  fading 
gloom 
With  everlasting  fire: 
Crowned  with  my  constellated  stars,  I 
stand 
Beside  the  foaming  sea, 
And  from  the  Future,  with  a  victor's 
hand, 
Claim  empire  for  the  Free !  " 

1848. 

I/ENVOI 

I  'ye  passed  the  grim  and  threatening 
warders 

That  guard  the  vestibule  of  Song, 
And  traced  the  print  of  bolder  footsteps 

The  lengthened  corridors  along  ; 
Where  every  thought  I  strove  to  blazon 

Beside  the  bannered  lays  of  old, 
Was  dimbelow  some  bright  escutcheon, 

Or  shaded  by  some  grander  fold. 


I  saw,  in  veiled  and  shadowy  glimpses, 

The  solemn  halls  expand  afar, 
And   through  the  twilight,  half  de- 
spairing, 

Looked  trembling  up  to  find  a  star  ; 
Till,  in  the  rush  of  wings,  awakened 

My  soul  to  utterance  free  and  strong 
And  with  impassioned  exultation, 

I  revelled  in  the  rage  of  Song  ! 

Then,  though   the  world  beside,  un- 
heeding, 

Heard  other  voices  than  my  own, 
Thou,   thou  didst  mark  the  broken 
music, 

And  cheer  its  proud,  aspiring  tone  : 
Thou  cam'st  in  many  a  lovely  vision 

To  lead  my  ardent  spirit  on, 
Thine  eye  my  morning-star  of  promise, 

The  sweet  anticipant  of  dawn. 

And  if  I  look  to  holier  altars, 

Thou  still  art  near  me,  as  of  old, 
And  thou  wilt  give  the  living  laurel, 

When  the  shrined  Presence  I  behold. 
Take,  then,  these  echoes  of  thy  being, 

My   lips  have   weakly    striven  to 
frame ; 
For  when  I  speak  what   thou  inspir- 
est, 

I  know  my  songs  are  nearest  fame. 

1848. 


CALIFORNIA    BALLADS   AND    POEMS 
1848-1851 


MANUELA 

From  the  doorway,  Manuela,  in  the 

sunny  April  morn, 
Southward   looks,    along   the  valley, 

over  leagues  of  gleaming  corn  ; 
Where  the  mountain's  misty  rampart 

like  the  wall  of  Eden  towers, 
And  the  isles  of  oak  are  sleeping  on  a 

painted  sea  of  flowers. 

All  the  air  is  full  of  music,  for  the 

winter  rains  are  o'er, 
And  the  noisy  magpies  chatter  from 

the  budding  sycamore  ; 
Blithely  frisk  unnumbered  squirrels, 

over  all  the  grassy  slope  ; 


Where  the  airy  summits  brighten, 
nimbly  leaps  the  antelope. 

Gentle    eyes    of    Manuela!     tell     me 

wherefore  do  ye  rest 
On  the   oak's  enchanted  islands  and 

the  flowery  ocean's  breast  ? 
Tell  me  wherefore,  down  the  valley, 

ye  have  traced  the  highway's 

mark 
Far  beyond  the  belts  of  timber,  to  the 

mountain-shadows  dark  ? 

Ah,  the  fragrant  bay  may  blossom 
and  the  sprouting  verdure  shine 

With  the  tears  of  amber  dropping 
from  the  tassels  of  the  pine, 


20 


CALIFORNIA   BALLADS    AND    POEMS 


And  the  morning's  breath  of  balsam 
lightly  brush  her  sunny 
cheek,  — 

Little  recketh  Manuela  of  the  tales  of 
Spring  they  speak. 

When  the  Summer's  burning  solstice 
on  the  mountain  -  harvests 
glowed, 

She  had  watched  a  gallant  horseman 
riding  down  the  valley  road ; 

Many  times  she  saw  him  turning,  look- 
ing back  with  parting  thrills, 

Till  amid  her  tears  she  lost  him,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  hills. 

Ere  the  cloudless  moons  were  over,  he 

had  passed  the  Desert's  sand, 
Crossed  the  rushing  Colorado  and  the 

wild  Apache  Land, 
And  his    laden  mules  were  driven, 

when  the  time  of  rains  began, 
With  the  traders  of  Chihuahua,  to  the 

Fair  of  San  Juan. 

Therefore  watches  Manuela,  —  there- 
fore lightly  doth  she  start, 

When  the  sound  of  distant  footsteps 
seems  the  beating  of  her  heart ; 

Not  a  wind  the  green  oak  rustles  or 
the  redwood  branches  stirs, 

But  she  hears  the  silver  jingle  of  his 
ringing  bit  and  spurs. 

Often,  out  the  hazy  distance,  come 

the  horsemen,  day  by  day, 
But  they  come  not  as  Bernardo,  —  she 

can  see  it,  far  away  ; 
Well  she  knows  the  airy  gallop  of  his 

mettled  alazan, 
Light  as  any  antelope  upon  the  Hills 

of  Gavilan. 

She  would  know  him  'mid  a  thousand, 

by  his  free  and  gallant  air  ; 
By  the    featly-knit  sarape,   such  as 

wealthy  traders  wear ; 
By  his  broidered  calzoneros  and  his 

saddle,  gayly  spread, 
With  its  cantle  rimmed  with  silver, 

and  its  horn  a  lion's  head. 

None  like  him  the  light  riata  on  the 
maddened  bull  can  throw  ; 

None  amid  the  mountain-canons  track 
like  him  the  stealthy  doe  ; 


And  at  all  the  Mission  festals,  few  in- 
deed the  revellers  are 

Who  can  dance  with  him  the  jota, 
touch  with  him  the  gay  guitar. 

He  has    said    to   Manuela,   and    the 

echoes  linger  still 
In  the  cloisters  of  her  bosom,  with  a 

secret,  tender  thrill, 
When  the  bay  again  has  blossomed, 

and  the  valley  stands  in  corn, 
Shall  the  bells  of  Santa  Clara  usher  in 

the  wedding  morn. 

He  has  pictured  the  procession,  all 

in  holiday  attire, 
And    the  laugh  of   bridal  gladness, 

when  they  see  the  distant  spire ; 
Then  their  love  shall  .kindle  newly, 

and  the  world  be  doubly  fair 
In  the  cool,  delicious  crystal  of  the 

summer  morning  air. 

Tender  eyes  of  Manuela  !   what  has 

dimmed  your  lustrous  beam  ? 
'T  is  a  tear  that  falls  to  glitter  on  the 

casket  of  her  dream. 
Ah,  the  eye  of  Love  must  brighten,  if 

its  watches  would  be  true, 
For  the  star  is  falsely  mirrored  in  the 

rose's  drop  of  dew! 

But  her  eager  eyes  rekindle,  and  her 
breathless  bosom  thrills, 

As  she  sees  a  horseman  moving  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hills  : 

Now  in  love  and  fond  thanksgiving 
they  may  loose  their  pearly 
tides,  — 

'T  is  the  alazan  that  gallops,  't  is  Ber- 
nardo's self  that  rides  ! 

Gvlf  of  Mexico,  1850. 

THE  FIGHT  OF  PASO  DEL  MAR 

Gusty  and  raw  was  the  morning, 

A  fog  hung  over  the  seas, 
And  its  gray  skirts,  rolling  inland, 

Were  torn  by  the  mountain  trees ; 
No  sound  was  heard  but  the  dashing 

Of  waves  on  the  sandy  bar, 
When  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  to  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

The  pescador,  out  in  his  shallop, 
Gathering  his  harvest  so  wide, 


THE   PINE   FOREST   OF    MONTEREY 


21 


Sees  the  dim  bulk  of  the  headland 

Loom  over  the  waste  of  the  tide  ; 
He  sees,  like  a  white  thread,  the  path- 
way 
Wind  round  on  the  terrible  wall, 
Where  the  faint,  moving  speck  of  the 
rider 
Seems  hovering  close  to  its  fall. 

Stout  Pablo  of  San  Diego 

Rode  down  from  the  hills  behind ; 
With    the   bells  on    his    gray    mule 
tinkling 

He  sang  through  the  fog  and  wind. 
Under  his  thick,  misted  eyebrows 

Twinkled  his  eye  like  a  star, 
And  fiercer  he  sang  as  the  sea-winds 

Drove  cold  on  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

Now  Bernal,  the  herdsman  of  Chino, 

Had  travelled  the  shore  since  dawn, 
Leaving  the  ranches  behind  him  — 

Good  reason  had  he  to  be  gone ! 
The  blood  was  still  red  on  his  dagger, 

The  fury  was  hot  in  his  brain, 
And  the  chill,  driving  scud  of  the 
breakers 

Beat  thick  on  his  forehead  in  vain. 

With  his  poncho  wrapped  gloomily 
round  him, 
He  mounted  the  dizzying  road, 
And  the  chasms  and  steeps  of  the 
headland 
Were  slippery  and  wet,  as  he  'trod  : 
Wild  swept  the  wind  of  the  ocean, 

Rolling  the  fog  from  afar, 
When    near    him  a  mule-bell    came 
tinkling, 
Midway  ontke  Paso  del  Mar. 

"Back ! "  shouted  Bernal,  full  fiercely, 
And    "Back!"   shouted  Pablo,   in 
wrath, 
As  his  mule  halted,  startled  and  shrink- 
ing, 
On  the  perilous  line  of  the  path. 
The  roar  of  devouring  surges 
Came  up  from  the  breakers'  hoarse 
war  ; 
And    "Back,   or  you  perish!"   cried 
Bernal, 
' '  I  turn  not  on  Paso  del  Mar  ! " 

The  gray  mule  stood  firm  as  the  head- 
land : 


He  clutched  at  the  jingling  rein, 
When  Pablo  rose  up  iu  his  saddle 

And  smote  till  he  dropped  it  again. 
A  wild  oath  of  passion  swore  Bernal, 
And  brandished  his  dagger,  still  red, 
While  fiercely  stout  Pablo  leaned  for- 
ward, 
And  fought  o'er  his  trusty  mule's 
head. 

They  fought  till  the  black  wall  below 
them 
Shone  red  through  the  misty  blast ; 
Stout    Pablo    then    struck,    leaning 
farther, 
The  broad  breast  of  Bernal  at  last. 
And,   frenzied  with  pain,   the   swart 
herdsman 
Closed  on  him  with  terrible  strength, 
And  jerked  him,  despite  of  his  strug- 
gles, 
Down  from  the  saddle  at  length. 

They  grappled  with  desperate  mad- 
ness, 

On  the  slippery  edge  of  the  wall ; 
They  swayed  on  the  brink,   and  to- 
gether 

Reeled  out  to  the  rush  of  the  fall. 
A  cry  of  the  wildest  death-anguish 

Rang  faint  through  the  mist  afar, 
And  the  riderless  mule  went  homeward 

From  the  fight  of  the  Paso  del  Mar. 

1848. 

THE  PINE  FOREST  OF 
MONTEREY 

What  point  of  Time,  unchronicled, 

and  dim 
As  yon  gray  mist  that  canopies  your 

heads, 
Took  from  the  greedy  wave  and  gave 

the  sun 
Your  dwelling-place,    ye  gaunt  and 

hoary  Pines  ? 
When,  from  the  barren  bosoms  of  the 

hills, 
With  scanty  nurture,  did  ye  slowly 

climb, 
Of  these  remote  and  latest-fashioned 

shores 
The  first-born  forest  ?    Titans  gnarled 

and  rough, 
Such  as  from  out  subsiding    Chaos 

grew 


22 


CALIFORNIA   BALLADS   AND    POEMS 


To  clothe  the  cold  loins  of  the  savage 
earth, 

What  fresh  commixture  of  the  ele- 
ments, 

What  earliest  thrill  of  life,  the  stub- 
born soil 

Slow-mastering,  engendered  ye  to  give 

The  hills  a  mantle  and  the  wind  a 
voice  ? 

Along  the  shore  ye  lift  your  rugged 
arms, 

Blackened  with  many  fires,  and  with 
hoarse  chant,  — 

Unlike  the  fibrous  lute  your  co-mates 
touch 

In  elder  regions,  — fill  the  awful  stops 

Between  the  crashing  cataracts  of  the 
surf. 

Have  ye  no  tongue,  in  all  your  sea  of 
sound, 

To  syllable  the  secret,  —  no  still  voice 

To  give  your  airy  myths  a  shadowy 
form, 

And  make  us  of  lost  centuries  of 
lore 

The  rich  inheritors  ? 

The  sea-winds  pluck 
Your  mossy  beards,  and  gathering  as 

they  sweep, 
Vex  your  high  heads,  and  with  your 

sinewy  arms 
Grapple  and  toil  in  vain.     A  deeper 

roar, 
Sullen   and    cold,   and    rousing    into 

spells 
Of  stormy  volume,  is  your  sole  reply. 
Anchored   in    firm-set    rock,   ye  ride 

the  blast, 
And   from  the   promontory's    utmost 

verge 
Make  signal  o'er  the  waters.     So  ye 

stood, 
When,  like  a  star,  behind  the  lonely 

sea, 
Far  shone  the  white  speck  of  Grijalva's 

sail; 
And  when,  through  driving  fog,  the 

breaker's  sound 
Frighted  Otondo's  men,    your    spicy 

breath 
Played  as  in  welcome  round  their  rusty 

helms, 
And  backward  from  its  staff  shook 

out  the  folds 
Of  Spain's  emblazoned  banner. 


Ancient  Pines, 
Ye  bear  no  record  of  the  years  of  man. 
Spring  is  your  sole  historian,  —  Spring, 

that  paints 
These    savage    shores  with  hues    of 

Paradise, 
That    decks    your    branches  with    a 

fresher  green, 
And  through  your  lonely,  far  cafiadas 

pours 
Her  floods  of  bloom,  rivers  of  opal  dye 
That  wander  down  to  lakes  and  widen- 
ing seas 
Of  blossom  and  of  fragrance,  —  laugh- 
ing Spring, 
That  with  her  wanton  blood  refills 

your  veins, 
And  weds  ye  to  your  juicy  youth 

again 
With  a  new  ring,  the  while  your  rifted 

bark 
Drops  odorous  tears.      Your  knotty 

fibres  yield 
To  the  light  touch  of  her  unfailing 

pen, 
As  freely  as  the  lupin's  violet  cup. 
Ye  keep,  close-locked,  the  memories 

of  her  stay 
As  in  their  shells  the  avelones  keep 
Morn's    rosy    flush    and    moonlight's 

pearly  glow. 
The  wild  northwest,  that  from  Alaska 

sweeps, 
To  drown  Point  Lobos  with  the  icy 

scud 
And  white  sea-foam,  may  rend  your 

boughs  and  leave 
Their  blasted  antlers  tossing  in  the 

gale; 
Your    steadfast    hearts     are    mailed 

against  the  shock, 
And  on  their  annual  tablets  naught 

inscribe 
Of  such  rude  visitation.     Ye  are  still 
The  simple  children  of  a  guiltless  soil, 
And  in  your  natures  show  the  sturdy 

grain 
That  passion  cannot  jar,  nor  force  re- 
lax, 
Nor  aught  but  sweet  and  kindly  airs 

compel 
To  gentler  mood.     No  disappointed 

heart 
Has  sighed  its  bitterness  beneath  your 

shade ; 
No  angry  spirit  ever  came  to  make 


EL    CANELO 


23 


Your  silence  its  confessional ;  no  voice, 

Grown  harsh  in  Crime's  great  market- 
place, the  world, 

Tainted  with  blasphemy  your  evening 
hush 

And  aromatic  air.     The  deer  alone,  — 

The  ambushed  hunter  that  brings 
down  the  deer,  — 

The  fisher  wandering  on  the  misty 
shore 

To  watch  sea-lions  wallow  in  the 
flood, — 

The  shout,  the  sound  of  hoofs  that 
chase  and  fly, 

When  swift  vaqueros,  dashing  through 
the  herds, 

Ride  down  the  angry  bull,  —  per- 
chance, the  song 

Some  Indian  heired  of  long -forgot  ten 
sires,  — 

Disturb  your  solemn  chorus. 

Stately  Pines, 
But  few  more  years  around  the  prom- 
ontory 
Your  chant  will  meet  the  thunders  of 

the  sea. 
No  more,  a  barrier  to  the  encroaching 

sand, 
Against  the  surf  ye  '11  stretch  defiant 

arm, 
Though  with  its  onset  and  besieging 

shock 
Your  firm  knees  tremble.    Never  more 

the  wind 
Shall  pipe  shrill  music  through  your 

mossy  beards, 
Nor    sunset's  yellow    blaze    athwart 

your  heads 
Crown  all  the  hills  with  gold.     Your 

race  is  past : 
The  mystic  cycle,  whose  unnoted  birth 
Coeval  was  with  yours,  has  run  its 

sands, 
And  other  footsteps  from  these  chang- 
ing shores 
Frighten  its  haunting  Spirit.       Men 

will  come 
To  vex  your   quiet  with  the  din  of 

toil  ; 
The  smoky  volumes  of  the  forge  will 

stain 
This  pure,  sweet  air ;  loud  keels  will 

ride  the  sea, 
Dashing  its  glittering  sapphire  into 

foam  : 


Through  all  her  green  canadas  Spring 

will  seek 
Her  lavish  blooms  in  vain,  and  clasp- 
ing ye, 
O  mournful  Pines,  within  her  glowing 

arms, 
Will  weep  soft  rains  to  find  ye  fallen 

low. 
Fall,  therefore,  yielding  to  the  fiat  1 

Fall, 
Ere  the  maturing  soil,  whose  first  dull 

life 
Fed  your  belated  germs,  be  rent  and 

seamed ! 
Fall,   like    the    chiefs  ye    sheltered, 

stern,  unbent, 
Your  gray  beards  hiding  memorable 

scars ! 
The  winds  will  mourn  ye,  and  the  bar- 
ren hills 
Whose  breast  ye  clothed ;  and  when 

the  pauses  come 
Between  the  crashing  cataracts  of  the 

surf, 
A  funeral  silence,  terrible,  profound, 
Will  make  sad  answer  to  the  listening 

sea. 

Monterey,  1849. 

EL  CANELO 


Now  saddle  El  Canelo  !  —  the  fresh- 
ening wind  of  morn, 

Down  in  the  flowery  vega,  is  stirring 
through  the  corn  ; 

The  thin  smoke  of  the  ranches  grows 
red  with  coming  day, 

And  the  steed  is  fiercely  stamping,  in 
haste  to  be  away. 

11 

My  glossy-limbed  Canelo,  thy  neck  is 

curved  in  pride, 
Thy  slender  ears  pricked  forward,  thy 

nostril  straining  wide  ; 
And  as  thy  quick  neigh  greets  me,  and 

I  catch  thee  by  the  mane, 
I'm  off  with  the  winds  of  morning,  — 

the  chieftain  of  the  plain  ! 

in 
I  feel  the  swift  air  whirring,  and  see 

along  our  track, 
From    the    flinty-paved    sierra,    the 

sparks  go  streaming  back  ; 


24 


CALIFORNIA   BALLADS   AND   POEMS 


And  I  clutch  my  rifle  closer,  as  we 

sweep  the  dark  defile, 
Where  the  red  guerillas  ambush  for 

many  a  lonely  mile. 

IV 

They  reach  not  El  Canelo  ;  with  the 

swiftness  of  a  dream 
"We  've  passed  the  bleak  Nevada,  and 

San  Fernando's  stream ; 
But  where,  on  sweeping  gallop,  my 

bullet  backward  sped, 
The  keen-eyed  mountain  vultures  will 

wheel  above  the  dead. 


On!    on,   my  brave  Canelo!    we've 

dashed  the  sand  and  snow 
From  peaks  upholding  heaven,  from 

deserts  far  below,  — 
We've  thundered  through  the  forest, 

while  the    crackling    branches 

rang, 
And  trooping  elks,   affrighted,   from 

lair  and  covert  sprang. 

VI 

We  've  swum  the  swollen  torrent,  — 

we  've  distanced  in  the  race 
The    baying  wolves   of    Pinos,   that 

panted  with  the  chase ; 
And  still  thy  mane  streams  backward, 

at  every  thrilling  bound, 
And  still  thy  measured  hoof -stroke 

beats  with  its  morning  sound ! 

VII 

The  seaward  winds  are  wailing 
through  Santa  Barbara's  pines, 

And  like  a  sheathless  sabre,  the  far 
Pacific  shines  ; 

Hold  to  thy  speed,  my  arrow!  at 
nightfall  thou  shalt  lave 

Thy  hot  and  smoking  haunches  be- 
neath his  silver  wave ! 


My  head  upon  thy  shoulder,  along  the 

sloping  sand 
We  '11  sleep  as  trusty  brothers,  from 

out  the  mountain  land ; 
The  pines  will  sound  in  answer  to  the 

surges  on  the  shore, 
And    in    our  dreams,    Canelo,    we'll 

make  the  journey  o'er. 

1848. 


THE  SUMMER  CAMP 

Here  slacken  rein  ;  here  let  the  dusty 

mules 
Unsaddled  graze!     The  shadows  of 

the  oaks 
Are  on  our  brows,  and  through  their 

knotted  boles 
We  see  the  blue  round  of  the  bound- 
less plain 
Vanish    in    glimmering    heat:    these 

aged  oaks, 
The  island  speck  that  beckoned  us  afar 
Over  the  burning  level,  —  as  we  came, 
Spreading    to    shore  and  cape,   and 

bays  that  ran 
To  leafy  headlands,  balanced  on  the 

haze, 
Faint  and  receding  as  a  cloud  in  air. 

The  mules  may  roam  unsaddled  :  we 

will  lie 
Beneath    the    mighty    trees,    whose 

shade  like  dew 
Poured  from  the  urns  of  Twilight, 

dries  the  sweat 
Of  sunburnt  brows,  and  on  the  heavy 

lid 
And  heated  eyeball  sheds  a  balm,  than 

sleep 
Far   sweeter.     We    have  done  with 

travel,  —  we 
Are  weary  now,  who  never  dreamed 

of  Rest, 
For  until  now  did  never  Rest  unbar 
Her  palace-doors,  nor  until  now  our 

ears 
The  silence  drink,  beyond  all  melodies 
Of  all  imagined  sound,  that  wraps  her 

realm. 
Here,  where  the  desolating  centuries 
Have    left    no    mark;    where  noises 

never  came 
From  the  far  world  of  battle  and  of 

toil ; 
Where  God  looks  down  and  sends  no 

thunderbolt 
To  smite  a  human  wrong,  for  all  is 


She  finds  a  refuge.     We  will  dwell 
with  her. 

No  more  of  travel,  where  the  flaming 

sword 
Of  the  great  sun  divides  the  heavens  ; 

no  more 


THE    SUMMER    CAMP 


25 


Of  climbing  over  jutty  steeps  that 

swim 
In  driving  sea-mist,  where  the  stunted 

tree 
Slants  inland,   mimicking   the   stress 

of  winds 
When  wind   is  none  ;    of  plain  and 

steaming  marsh 
Where  the  dry  bulrush  crackles  in  the 

heat ; 
Of  camps  by  starlight  in  the  columned 

vault 
Of  sycamores,  and  the  red,  dancing 

fires 
That  build  a  leafy  arch,  efface  and 

build, 
And  sink  at  last,  to  let  the  stars  peep 

through  ; 
Of  canons  grown  with  pine  and  folded 

deep 
In    golden   mountain- sides ;    of    airy 

sweeps 
Of  mighty  landscape,  lying  all  alone 
Like    some    deserted    world.     They 

tempt  no  more. 
It  is  enough  that  such  things  were : 

too  blest, 
O  comrades  mine,  to  lie  in  Summer's 

arms, 
Lodged  in  her  Camp  of  Rest,  we  will 

not  dream 
That  they  may  vex  us  more. 

The  sun  goes  down  : 
The  dun  mules  wander  idly  :  motion- 
less 
Beneath  the  stars,  the  heavy  foliage 

lifts 
Its  rich,    round   masses,  silent    as    a 

cloud 
That  sleeps  at  midday  on  a  mountain 

peak. 
All  through  the  long,  delicious  night 

no  stir 
Is  in  the  leaves  ;  spangled  with  broken 

gleams, 
Before  the  pining  Moon,  —  that  fain 

would  drop 
Into  the  lap   of  this  deep  quiet,  — 

swerve 
Eastward  the  shadows:   Day  comes 

on  again. 
Where  is  the  life  we  led?    Whither 

hath  fled 
The  turbulent  stream  that  brought  us 

hither?    How, 


So  full  of  sound,  so  lately  dancing 

down 
The  mountains,  turbid,  fretted  into 

foam,  — 
How  has  it  slipped,   with  scarce  a 

gurgling  coil, 
Into  this  calm  transparence,  noise  or 

wind 
Hath  ruffled  never  ?    Ages  past,  per- 
chance, 
Such  wild   turmoil  was  ours,  or  did 

some  Dream 
Malign,  that  last  night  nestled  in  the 

oak, 
Whisper  our  ears,  when  not  a  star 

could  see? 
Give  o'er  the  fruitless  doubt :  we  will 

not  waste 
One    thought  of  rest,   nor  spill  one 

radiant  drop 
From  the  full  goblet  of  this  summer 

balm. 

Day  after  day  the  mellow  sun  slides 

o'er, 
Night  after  night  the  mellow  moon. 

The  clouds 
Are  laid,  enchanted  :   soft  and  bare, 

the  heavens 
Fold  to  their  breast  the  dozing  Earth 

that  lies 
In  languor  of  deep  bliss.     At  times  a 

breath, 
Remnant  of  gales  far   off,  forgotten 

now, 
Rustles  the  never-fading  leaves,  then 

drops 
Affrighted  into  silence.    Near  a  slough 
Of  dark,  still  water,  in  the  early  morn 
The  shy  coyotas  prowl,  or  trooping 

elk 
From  the  close  covert  of  the  bulrush 

fields 
Their  dewy  antlers  toss:  nor  other 

sight, 
Save    when    the    falcon,    poised    on 

wheeling  wings, 
His    bright    eye  on    the    burrowing 

coney,  cuts 
His  arrowy  plunge.     Along  the  dis- 
tant trail, 
Dim  with  the  heat,   sometimes    the 

miners  go, 
Bearded  and  rough,  the  swart  Sono- 

rians  drive 
Their  laden  asses,  or  vaqueros  whirl 


26 


CALIFORNIA   BALLADS   AND   POEMS 


The  lasso's  coil    and  carol    many  a 

song, 
Native  to  Spanish  hills.     As  when  we 

lie 
On  the  soft  brink  of  Sleep,  not  pil- 
lowed quite 
To  blest  forgetf  ulness,  some  dim  array 
Of  masking  forms  in  long  procession 

comes, 
A  sweet  disturbance  to  the  poppied 

sense, 
That  will  not  cease,  but  gently  holds 

it  back 
From  slumber's  haven,  so  their  figures 

pass, 
With    such    disturbance    cloud    the 

bless&d  calm, 
And  hold  our  beings,  ready  to  slip 

forth 
O'er  unmolested  seas,  still  rocking  near 
The  coasts  of  Action. 

Other  dreams  are  ours, 

Of  shocks  that  were,  or  seemed ;  where- 
of our  souls 

Feel  the  subsiding  lapse,  as  feels  the 
sand 

Of  tropic  island-shores  the  dying  pulse 

Of  storms  that  racked  the  Northern 
sea.     My  Soul, 

I  do  believe  that  thou  hast  toiled  and 
striven, 

And  hoped  and  suffered  wrong.  I  do 
believe 

Great  aims  were  thine,  deep  loves  and 
fiery  hates, 

And  though  I  may  have  lain  a  thou- 
sand years 

Beneath  these  Oaks,  the  baffled  trust 
of  Youth, 

Thy  first  keen  sorrow,  brings  a  gentle 
pang 

To  temper  joy.  Nor  will  the  joy  I 
drank 

To  wild  intoxication,  quit  my  heart : 

It  was  no  dream  that  still  has  power 
to  droop 

The  soft-suffusing  lid,  and  lift  de- 
sire 

Beyond  this  rapt  repose.  No  dream, 
dear  love ! 

For  thou  art  with  me  in  our  Camp  of 
Peace. 

O  Friend,  whose  history  is  writ  in 
deeds 


That  make  your  life  a  marvel,  come 

no  gleams 
Of    past    adventure,    echoes    of    old 

storms, 
And  Battle's  tingling  hum  of  flying 

shot, 
To  touch  your  easy  blood  and  tempt 

you  o'er 
The  round  of  yon  blue  plain  ?    Or 

have  they  lost, 
Heroic  days,   the  virtue   which  the 

heart 
That  did  their  hest  rejoicing,  proved 

so  high  ? 
Back  through  the  long,  long  cycles  of 

our  rest 
Your  memory  travels  :  through  this 

hush  you  hear 
The  Gila's  dashing,  feel  the  yawning 

jaws 
Of  black  volcanic  gorges  close  you 

in 
On  waste  and  awful  tracts  of  wilder- 
ness, 
Which  other  than  the  eagle's  cry,  or 

bleat 
Of     mountain -goat,    hear    not  :     the 

scorching  sand 
Eddies  around  the  tracks  your  fainting 

mules 
Leave  in  the  desert :  thorn  and  cactus 

pierce 
Your   bleeding  limbs,  and   stiff'  with 

raging  thirst 
Your  tongue  forgets  its  office.     Leave 

untried 
That  cruel  trail,  and  leave  the  wintry 

hills 
And  leave  the  tossing  sea  !    The  Sum- 
mer here 
Builds  us  a  tent  of  everlasting  calm. 

How  shall  we  wholly  sink  our  lives  in 

thee, 
Thrice-blessed   Deep  ?     O    many-na- 

tured  Soul, 
Chameleon-like,  that,  steeped  in  every 

phase 
Of  wide  existence,  tak'st  the  hue  of 

each, 
Here  with  the  silent  Oaks  and  azure 

Air 
Incorporate  grow!    Here  loosen  one 

by  one 
Thy  vexing  memories,  burdens  of  the 

Past, 


THE   BISON    TRACK 


27 


Till  all  unrest  be  laid,  and  strong  De- 
sire 
Sleeps  on  his  nerveless  arm.     Content 

to  find 
In  liberal  Peace  thy  being's  high  result 
And  crown  of  aspiration,  gather  all 
The  dreams  of  sense,  the  reachings  of 

the  mind 
For  ampler  issues  and  dominion  vain, 
To  fold  them  on  her  bosom,  happier 

there 
Than  in  exultant  action  :  as  a  child 
Forgets  his  meadow  butterflies  and 

flowers, 
Upon  his  mother's  breast. 

It  may  not  be. 
Not  in  this  Camp,  in  these  enchanted 

Trees, 
But  in  ourselves,  must  lodge  the  calm 

we  seek, 
Ere  we  can  fix  it  here.     We  cannot 

take 
From  outward  nature  power  to  snap 

the  curse 
Which  clothed  our  birth  ;  and  though 

't  were  easier 
This  hour  to  die  than  yield  the  blessed 

cup 
Wherefrom  our  hearts  divinest  com- 
fort draw, 
It  clothes  us  yet,  and  yet  shall  drive 

us  forth 
To  breast  the  world.     Then  come :  we 

will  not  bide 
To  tempt  a  ruin  to  this  paradise, 
Fulfilling  Destiny.     A  mighty  wind 
Would  gather  on  the  plain,  a  cloud 

arise 
To  blot  the  sky,  with  thunder  in  its 

heart, 
And  the  black  column  of  the  whirl- 
wind spin 
Out  of  the  cloud,  straight  downward 

to  this  grove, 
Take  by  their  heads  the   shuddering 

trees,  and  wrench 
With  fearful  clamor,  limb  from  limb, 

till  Rest 
Should   flee   forever.     Rather   set   at 

once 
Our  faces  towards  the  noisy  world 

again, 
And  gird  our  loins  for  action.     Let  us 

go! 

1851. 


THE  BISON  TRACK 


Strike  the  tent!  the  sun  has  risen; 

not  a  vapor  streaks  the  dawn, 
And  the  frosted  prairie  brightens  to 

the  westward,  far  and  wan  : 
Prime     afresh     the    trusty    rifle,  — 

sharpen      well     the      hunting 

spear  — 
For  the  frozen  sod  is  trembling,  and 

a  noise  of  hoofs  I  hear ! 


Fiercely  stamp  the  tethered  horses,  as 

they  snuff  the  morning's  fire  ; 
Their  impatient  heads  are  tossing,  and 

they  neigh  with  keen  desire. 
Strike  the   tent !     the    saddles   wait 

us,  —  let    the     bridle-reins    be 

slack, 
For  the  prairie's  distant  thunder  has 

betrayed  the  bison's  track. 


See  !  a  dusky  line  approaches  :  hark, 

the  onward-surging  roar, 
Like  the  din  of  wintry  breakers  on  a 

sounding  wall  of  shore  ! 
Dust  and  sand  behind  them  whirling, 

snort  the  foremost  of  the  van, 
And  their  stubborn  horns  are  clashing 

through  the  crowded  caravan. 

IV 

Now  the  storm  is  down  upon  us  :  let 

the  maddened  horses  go ! 
We  shall  ride  the  living  whirlwind, 

though  a  hundred   leagues  it 

blow! 
Though    the    cloudy    manes    should 

thicken,  and  the  red  eyes'  angry 

glare 
Lighten  round  us  as  we  gallop  through 

the  sand  and  rushing  air  ! 


Myriad  hoofs  will  scar  the  prairie,  in 

our  wild,  resistless  race, 
And    a    sound,    like   mighty   waters, 

thunder  down  the  desert  space  : 
Yet  the  rein  may  not  be  tightened, 

nor  the  rider's  eye  look  back  — 
Death    to  him  whose  speed    should 

slacken,     on      the     maddened 

bison's  track! 


28 


ROMANCES 


Now  the  trampling  herds  are  threaded, 

and    the    chase    is   close    and 

warm 
For  the  giant  bull  that  gallops  in  the 

edges  of  the  storm : 
Swiftly  hurl   the   whizzing   lasso,  — 

swing  your  rifles  as  we  run  : 
See  !   the  dust  is  red  behind  him,  — 

shout,    my     comrades,    he     is 

won! 


Look  not  on  him  as  he  staggers,  —  't  is 

the  last  shot  he  will  need ! 
More  shall  fall,  among  his  fellows,  ere 

we  run  the  mad  stampede,  — 
Ere  we   stem  the  brinded  breakers, 

while    the    wolves,   a    hungry 

pack, 
Howl  around  each  grim-eyed  carcass, 

on  the  bloody  Bison  Track ! 

1848. 


ROMANCES 

1849-185 i 


MON-DA-MIN 


OR,    THE   ROMANCE   OF   MAIZE 


Long  ere  the  shores  of  green  America 
"Were  touched  by  men  of  Norse  and 

Saxon  blood, 
What  time  the  Continent  in  silence 

lay, 
A  solemn  realm  of  forest  and  of  flood, 
Where  Nature  wantoned  wild  in  zones 

immense, 
Unconscious  of  her  own  magnificence; 


Then  to  the  savage  race,  who  knew 
no  world 

Beyond  the  hunter's  lodge,  the  coun- 
cil-fire, 

The  clouds  of  grosser  sense  were 
sometimes  furled, 

And  spirits  came  to  answer  their  de- 
sire, — 

The  spirits  of  the  race,  grotesque  and 
shy; 

Exaggerated  powers  of  earth  and  sky. 


For  Gods  resemble  whom  they  gov- 
ern :  they, 

The  fathers  of  the  soil,  may  not  out- 
grow 

The  children's  vision.  In  that  earlier 
day, 

They  stooped  the  race  familiarly  to 
know; 


From  Heaven's  blue  prairies  they  de- 
scended then, 

And  took  the  shapes  and  shared  the 
lives  of  men. 


A  chief  there  was,  who  in  the  frequent 
stress 

Of  want,  yet  in  contentment,  lived  his 
days  ; 

His  lodge  was  built  within  the  wilder- 
ness 

Of  Huron,  clasping  those  transparent 
bays, 

Those  deeps  of  unimagined  crystal, 
where 

The  bark  canoe  seems  hung  in  middle 
air. 


There,  from  the  lake  and  from  the 

uncertain  chase 
With  patient  heart  his  sustenance  he 

drew ; 
And  he  was  glad  to  see,  in  that  wild 

place, 
The  sons  and  daughters  that  around 

him  grew, 
Although  more  scant  they  made  his 

scanty  store, 
And  in  the  winter  moons  his  need  was 

sore. 


The  eldest  was  a  boy,  a  silent  lad, 
Who  wore  a  look  of  wisdom  from  his 
birth ; 


MON-DA-MIN 


29 


Such  beauty,  both  of  form  and  face, 

he  had, 
As   until  then  was  never  known  on 

earth : 
And  so  he  was  (his  soul  so  bright  and 

far!) 
Osseo  named,  —  Son  of  the  Evening 

Star. 

VII 

This  boy  by  nature  was  companion- 
less  : 

His  soul  drew  nurture  only  when  it 
sucked 

The  savage  dugs  of  Fable  ;  he  could 
guess 

The  knowledge  other  minds  but  slowly 
plucked 

From  out  the  heart  of  things  ;  to  him, 
as  well 

As  to  his  Gods,  all  things  were  possi- 
ble. 


The  heroes  of  that  shapeless  faith  of 

his 
Took  life  from  him  :   when  gusts  of 

powdery  snow 
Whirled    round    the    lodge,   he   saw 

Paup-puckewiss 
Floundering  amid  the  drifts,  and  he 

would  go 
Climbing  the  hills,  while  sunset  faded 

wan, 
To  seek  the  feathers  of  the  Rosy  Swan. 

IX 

He  knew  the  lord  of  serpent  and  of 
beast, 

The  crafty  Incarnation  of  the  North  ; 

He  knew,  when  airs  grew  warm  and 
buds  increased, 

The  sky  was  pierced,  the  Summer  is- 
sued forth, 

And  when  a  cloud  concealed  some 
mountain's  crest 

The  Bird  of  Thunder  brooded  on  his 
nest. 


Through  Huron's  mists  he  saw  the 

enchanted  boat 
Of  old  Mishosha  to  his  island  go, 
And  oft  he  watched,  if  on  the  waves 

might  float, 
As  once,  the  Fiery  Plume  of  Wassamo ; 


And  when  the  moonrise  flooded  coast 

and  bay, 
He  climbed  the  headland,  stretching 

far  away ; 

XI 

For  there  —  so  ran  the  legend  — 
nightly  came 

The  small  Puck-wudjees,  ignorant  of 
harm : 

The  friends  of  Man,  in  many  a  spor- 
tive game 

The  nimble  elves  consoled  them  for 
the  charm 

Which  kept  them  exiled  from  their 
homes  afar,  — 

The  silver  lodges  of  a  twilight  star. 


So  grew  Osseo,  as  a  lonely  pine, 
That  knows  the  secret  of  the  wander- 
ing breeze, 
And  ever  sings  its  canticles  divine, 
Uncomprehended  by  the  other  trees  : 
And  now  the  time  drew  nigh,  when 

he  began 
The  solemn  fast  whose  issue  proves 
the  man. 

XIII 

His  father  built  a  lodge  the  wood 
within, 

Where  he  the  appointed  space  should 
duly  bide, 

Till  such  propitious  time  as  he  had 
been 

By  faith  prepared,  by  fasting  puri- 
fied, 

And  in  mysterious  dreams  allowed  to 
see 

What  God  the  guardian  of  his  life 
would  be. 

XIV 

The  anxious  crisis  of  the  Spring  was 
past, 

And  warmth  was  master  o'er  the  lin- 
gering cold. 

The  alder's  catkins  dropped ;  the 
maple  cast 

His  crimson  bloom,  the  willow's 
downy  gold 

Blew  wide,  and  softer  than  a  squirrel's 
ear 

The  white  oak's  foxy  leaves  began 
appear. 


3° 


ROMANCES 


There  was  a  motion  in  the  soil.     A 

sound 
Lighter  than  falling  seeds,  shook  out 

of  flowers, 
Exhaled  where  dead  leaves,  sodden  on 

the  ground, 
Repressed  the  eager  grass;  and  there 

for  hours 
Osseo  lay,  and  vainly  strove  to  bring 
Into  his  mind  the  miracle  of  Spring. 

XVI 

The  wood-birds  knew  it,  and  their 
voices  rang 

Around  his  lodge  ;  with  many  a  dart 
and  whir 

Of  saucy  joy,  the  shrewish  catbird 
sang 

Full-throated,  and  he  heard  the  king- 
fisher, 

Who  from  his  God  escaped  with  rum- 
pled crest, 

And  the  white  medal  hanging  on  his 
breast. 

XVII 

The  aquilegia  sprinkled  on  the 
rocks 

A  scarlet  rain  ;  the  yellow  violet 

Sat  in  the  chariot  of  its  leaves  ;  the 
phlox 

Held  spikes  of  purple  flame  in  mea- 
dows wet, 

And  all  the  streams  with  vernal- 
scented  reed 

Were  fringed,  and  streaky  bells  of 
miskodeed. 

XVIII 

The  boy  went    musing  :    What    are 

these,  that  burst 
The  sod  and  grow,  without  the  aid  of 

man? 
What    father  brought    them    food  ? 

what  mother  nursed 
Them  in  her  earthy  lodge,  till  Spring 

began  ? 
They  cannot  speak  ;  they  move  but 

with  the  air; 
Yet  souls  of  evil  or  of    good  they 

bear. 


How  are  they  made,  that  some  with 
wholesome  juice 


Delight  the  tongue,  and  some  are 
charged  with  death  ? 

If  spirits  them  inhabit,  they  can  loose 

Their  shape  sometimes,  and  talk  with 
human  breath  : 

Would  that  in  dreams  one  such  would 
come  to  me, 

And  thence  my  teacher  and  my  guar- 
dian be ! 


So,  when  more  languid  with  his  fast, 

the  boy 
Kept  to  his  lodge,  he  pondered  much 

thereon, 
And  other  memories  gave  his  mind 

employ  ; 
Memories  of  winters  when  the  moose 

were  gone,  — 
When  tales  of  Manabozo  failed  to  melt 
The  hunger-pang  his  pining  brothers 

felt. 


He  thought :  The  Mighty  Spirit  knows 
all  things, 

Is  master  over  all.  Could  He  not 
choose 

Design  his  children  food  to  ease  the 
stings 

Of  hunger,  when  the  lake  and  wood 
refuse  ? 

If  He  will  bless  me  with  the  know- 
ledge, I 

Will  for  my  brothers  fast  until  I  die. 

XXII 

Four  days  were  sped  since  he  had 

tasted  meat ; 
Too  faint  he  was  to  wander  any  more, 
When  from  the  open  sky,  that,  blue 

and  sweet, 
Looked   in    upon    him    through    the 

lodge's  door, 
With  quiet  gladness  he  beheld  a  fair 
Celestial   Shape    descending  through 

the  air. 

XXIII 

He  fell  serenely,  as  a  winged  seed 
Detached  in  summer  from  the  maple 

bough ; 
His  glittering  clothes  unruffled  by  the 

speed, 
The  tufted  plumes  unshaken  on  his 

brow: 


MON-DA-MIN 


3i 


Bright,  wonderful,  he  came  without  a 

sound, 
And  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  struck 


XXIV 

So  light  he  stood,  so  tall  and  straight 

of  limb, 
So  fair  the  heavenly  freshness  of  his 

face, 
With  beating  heart  Osseo  looked   at 

him, 
For  now  a  God  had  visited  the  place. 
More  brave  a  God  his  dreams  had  never 

seen  : 
The  stranger's  garments  were  a  shining 

green. 

XXV 

Sheathing  his  limbs  in  many  a  stately 

fold, 
That,  parting  on  his  breast,  allowed 

the  eye 
To  note  beneath,   his  vest  of  scaly 

gold, 
Whereon    the    drops    of     slaughter, 

scarcely  dry, 
Disclosed    their    blushing    stain :  his 

shoulders  fair 
Gave  to  the  wind  long  tufts  of  silky 

hair. 

XXVI 

The  plumy  crest,  that  high  and  beauti- 
ful 

Above  his  head  its  branching  tassels 
hung, 

Shook  down  a  golden  dust,  while,  fix- 
ing full 

His  eyes  upon  the  boy,  he  loosed  his 
tongue. 

Deep  in  his  soul  Osseo  did  rejoice 

To  hear  the  reedy  music  of  his  voice : 

XXVII 

"  By  the  Great  Spirit  I  am  hither  sent, 
He  knows  the  wishes  whereupon  you 

feed,  — 
The  soul,  that,  on  your  brothers'  good 

intent, 
Would  sink  ambition  to  relieve  their 

need  : 
This  thing  is  grateful  to  the  Master's 

eye, 
Nor  will  His  wisdom  what  you  seek 

deny. 


XXVIII 

' '  But  blessings  are  not  free  ;  they  do 

not  fall 
In  listless  hands  ;  by   toil  the    soul 

must  prove 
Its  steadfast  purpose  master  over  all, 
Before  their  wings  in  pomp  of  coming 

move  : 
Here,  wrestling  with  me,    must   you 

overcome, 
In  me,  the  secret,  —  else,  my  lips  are 

dumb." 

XXIX 

No  match  for  his,  Osseo' s  limbs  ap- 
peared, 

Weak  with  the  fast ;  and  yet  in  soul 
he  grew 

Composed  and  resolute,  by  accents 
cheered, 

That  spake  in  light  what  he  but  darkly 
knew. 

He  rose,  unto  the  issue  nerved ;  he 
sent 

Into  his  arms  the  hope  of  the  event. 

XXX 

The  shining  stranger  wrestled  long 
and  hard, 

When,  disengaging  weary  limbs,  he 
said  : 

' '  It  is  enough ;  with  no  unkind  regard 

The  Master's  eye  your  toil  hath  vis- 
ited. 

He  bids  me  cease ;  to-day  let  strife  re- 
main; 

But  on  the  morrow  I  will  come  again." 

XXXI 

And  on  the  morrow  came  he  as  be- 
fore, 

Dropping  serenely  down  the  deep- 
blue  air : 

More  weak  and  languid  was  the  boy, 
yet  more 

Courageous  he,  that  crowning  test  to 
bear. 

His  soul  so  wrought  in  every  fainting 
limb, 

It  seemed  the  cruel  fast  had  strength- 
ened him. 

XXXII 

Again  they  grappled,  and  their  sin- 
ews wrung  . 
In  desperate  emulation  ;  and  again 


32 


ROMANCES 

from    the 
scaled 


Came  words    of    comfort 

stranger's  tongue 
When  they  had  ceased.     He 

the  heavenly  plain, 
His  tall,  bright  stature  lessening  as 

he  rose, 
Till  lost  amid  the  infinite  repose. 

XXXIII 

On  the  third  day  descending  as  be- 
fore 

His  raiment's  gleam  surprised  the 
silent  sky  ; 

And  weaker  still  the  poor  boy  felt, 
yet  more 

Courageous  he,  and  resolute  to  die, 

So  he  might  first  the  promised  good 
embrace, 

And  leave  a  blessing  unto  all  his 
race. 

xxxiv 
This    time  with  intertwining    limbs 

they  strove  ; 
The  God's    green    mantle    shook    in 

every  fold, 
And  o'er  Osseo's  heated  forehead  drove 
His  silky  hair,  his  tassel's  dusty  gold, 
Till,  spent  and  breathless,  he  at  last 

forbore, 
And  sat  to  rest    beside   the  lodge's 

door. 

xxxv 
"  My  friend,"  he  said,  "the  issue  now 

is  plain ; 
Who  wrestles  in  his  soul  must  victor 

be; 
Who  bids  his  life  in  payment  shall 

attain 
The  end    he    seeks,  —  and  you  will 

vanquish  me. 
Then,  these  commands  fulfilling,  you 

shall  win 
What  the  Great  Spirit  gives  in  Mon- 

da-Min. 

xxxvi 

"When  I  am  dead,  strip  off  this  green 
array, 

And  pluck  the  tassels  from  my  shriv- 
elled hair ; 

Then  bury  me  where  summer  rains 
shall  play 

Above  my  breast,  and  sunshine  linger 
there. 


Kemove  the  matted  sod  ;  for  I  would 

have 
The  earth  lie  lightly,  softly  on  my 

grave. 


XXXVII 

"And  tend  the  place,  lest  any  nox- 
ious weed 

Through  the  sweet  soil  should  strike 
its  bitter  root ; 

Nor  let  the  blossoms  of  the  forest 
breed, 

Nor  the  wild  grass  in  green  luxuri- 
ance shoot ; 

But  when  the  earth  is  dry  and  blis- 
tered, fold 

Thereon  the  fresh  and  dainty-smelling 
mould. 

XXXVIII 

"The  clamoring  crow,  the  blackbird 

swarms  that  make 
The  meadow  trees  their  hive,  must 

come  not  near : 
Scare  thence  all  hurtful  things ;   nor 

quite  forsake 
Your  careful  watch  until  the  woods 

appear 
With  crimson  blotches  deeply  dashed 

and  crossed,  — 
Sign  of  the  fatal  pestilence  of  Frost. 

XXXIX 

"This  done,  the  secret,  into  know- 
ledge grown, 

Is  yours  forevermore."  With  that,  he 
took 

The  yielding  air.     Osseo,  left  alone, 

Followed  his  flight  with  hope-enrap- 
tured look. 

The  pains  of  hunger  fled  ;  a  happy 
flame 

Danced  in  his  heart  until  the  trial 
came. 

XL 

It  happened  so,  as  Mon-da-Min  fore- 
told ; 
Osseo's  soul,  at  every  wreathing  twist 
Of    palpitating    muscle,   grew  more 

bold, 
And  from  the  limbs  of  his  antago- 
nist 
Celestial  vigor  to  his  own  he  drew, 
Till  with  one  mighty  heave  he  over- 
threw. 


MON-DA-MIN 


33 


XLI 

Then  from  the  body,  beautiful  and 

cold, 
He  stripped  the  shining  clothes ;  but 

on  his  breast 
He    left    the    vest,    engraiDed    with 

blushing  gold, 
And  covered  him  in  decent  burial-rest. 
At  sunset  to  his  father's    lodge  he 

passed, 
And  soothed  with  meat  the  anguish 

of  his  fast. 


Naught  did  he  speak  of  all  that  he 
had  done, 

But  day  by  day  in  secrecy  he  sought 

An  opening  in  the  forest,  where  the 
sun 

"Warmed  the  new  grave:  so  tenderly 
he  wrought, 

So  lightiv  heaped  the  mould,  so  care- 
~  fully 

Kept  all  the  place  from  choking  herb- 
age free, 

XLTII 

That  in  a  little  while  a  folded  plume 
Pushed  timidly  the  covering  soil  aside, 
And,     fed   by   fattening    rains,    took 

broader  room, 
Until  it  grew  a  stalk,  and  rustled  wide 
Its  leafy  garments,  lifting  in  the  air 
Its  tasselled  top,  and  knots  of  silky 

hair. 

XLIV 

Osseo  marvelled  to  behold  his  friend 

In  this  fair  plant ;  the  secret  of  the 
Spring 

Was  his  at  length  ;  and  till  the  Sum- 
mer's end 

He  guarded  him  from  every  harmful 
thing. 

He  scared  the  cloud  of  blackbirds, 
wheeling  low ; 

His  arrow  pierced  the  reconnoitring 
crow. 


mornings, 


XLV 

Now    came    the    brilliant 

kindling  all 
The  woody  hills  witli  pinnacles  of  fire ; 
The  turn's  ensanguined  leaves  began 

to  fall, 
The  buckeye  blazed  in  prodigal  attire, 


And  frosty  vapors  left  the  lake  at 
night 

To  string  the  prairie  grass  with  span- 
gles white. 

XL  VI 

One  day,  from  long  and  unsuccessful 
chase 

The  chief  returned.  Osseo  through 
the  wood 

In  silence  led  him  to  the  guarded 
place, 

Where  now  the  plant  in  golden  ripe- 
ness stood. 

"Behold,  my  father  !"  he  exclaimed, 
' '  our  friend, 

Whom  the  Great  Spirit  unto  me  did 
send, 

XLVII 

' '  Then,  when  I  fasted,  and  my  prayer 
He  knew, 

That  He  would  save  my  brothers  from 
their  want ; 

For  this,  His  messenger  I  over- 
threw, 

And  from  his  grave  was  born  this  glo- 
rious plant. 

'T  is  Mon-da-Min :  his  sheathing  husks 
enclose 

Food  for  my  brothers  in  the  time  of 
snows. 

XL  VIII 

' '  I  leave  you  now,  my  father !  Here 
befits 

Me  longer  not  to  dwell.  My  pathway 
lies 

To  where  the  West- wind  on  the  moun- 
tain sits, 

And  the  Red  Swan  beyond  the  sunset 
flies: 

There  may  superior  wisdom  be  in 
store. " 

And  so  he  went,  and  he  returned  no 
more. 

XLIX 

But  Mon-da-Min  remained,  and  still  re- 
mains ; 

His  children  cover  all  the  boundless 
land, 

And  the  warm  sun  and  frequent  mel- 
low rains 

Shape  the  tall  stalks  and  make  the 
leaves  expand. 


34 


A  mighty  army  they  have  grown 

drills 
Their  green  battalions  on  the  summer 

hills. 


And  when  the  silky  hair  hangs  crisp 

and  dead, 
Then  leave  their  rustling  ranks  the 

tasselled  peers, 
In  broad  encampment  pitch  their  tents 

instead, 
And  garner  up  the  ripe  autumnal  ears  : 
The  annual  storehouse  of  a  nation's 

need, 
From  whose  abundance  all  the  world 

may  feed. 
1851. 

HYLAS 

Storm-wearied  Argo  slept  upon  the 

water. 
No  cloud  was  seen ;  on  blue  and  craggy 

Ida 
The  hot  noon  lay,  and  on  the  plain's 

enamel ; 
Cool,  in  his  bed,  alone,  the  swift  Sca- 

mander. 
"  Why  should  I  haste  ?  "  said  young 

and  rosy  Hylas  : 
"The  seas  were  rough,  and  long  the 

way  from  Colchis. 
Beneath  the  snow-white  awning  slum- 
bers Jason, 
Pillowed  upon  his  tame    Thessalian 

panther ; 
The  shields  are  piled,  the  listless  oars 

suspended 
On  the  black  thwarts,  and  all  the  hairy 

bondsmen 
Doze  on  the  benches.     They  may  wait 

for  water, 
Till  I  have  bathed  in  mountain-born 

Scamander." 

So  said,  unfilleting  his  purple  chla- 

mys, 
And  putting  down  his  urn,  he  stood  a 

moment, 
Breathing  the  faint,  warm  odor  of  the 

blossoms 
That  spangled  thick  the  lovely  Dardan 

meadows. 
Then,  stooping  lightly,   loosened  he 

his  buskins, 


ROMANCES 

he 


And  felt  with  shrinking  feet  the  crispy 

verdure, 
Naked,  save  one  light  robe  that  from 

his  shoulder 
Hung  to  his  knee,  the  youthful  flush 

revealing 
Of  warm,   white    limbs,   half-nerved 

with  coming  manhood, 
Yet  fair  and  smooth  with  tenderness 

of  beauty. 
Now  to  the  river's  sandy  marge  ad- 
vancing, 
He  dropped  the  robe,  and  raised  his 

head  exulting 
In  the  clear  sunshine,  that  with  beam 

embracing 
Held  him  against  Apollo's  glowing 

bosom. 
For  sacred  to  Latona's  son  is  Beauty, 
Sacred  is  Youth,  the  joy  of  youthful 

feeling. 
A    joy    indeed,    a    living    joy,    was 

Hylas, 
Whence  Jove-begotten  HgraclSs,   the 

mighty, 
To  men  though  terrible,  to  him  was 

gentle, 
Smoothing    his    rugged   nature  into 

laughter 
When  the  boy  stole  his  club,  or  from 

his  shoulders 
Dragged  the  huge  paws  of  the  Nemaean 

lion. 

The  thick,  brown  locks,  tossed  back- 
ward from  his  forehead, 
Fell  soft  about  his  temples ;  manhood's 

blossom 
Not  yet  had  sprouted  on  his  chin,  but 

freshly 
Curved  the  fair  cheek,  and  full  the  red 

lips,  parting, 
Like    a    loose    bow,    that    just    has 

launched  its  arrow. 
His  large  blue  eyes,  with  joy  dilate 

and  beamy, 
Were  clear  as  the  unshadowed  Grecian 

heaven ; 
Dewy  and  sleek  his  dimpled  shoulders 

rounded 
To  the  white  arms  and  whiter  breast 

between  them. 
Downward,  the  supple  lines  had  less 

of  softness : 
His  back  was  like  a  god's  ;  his  loins 

were  moulded 


HYLAS 


35 


As  if  some  pulse  of  power  began  to 
waken ; 

The  springy  fulness  of  his  thighs, 
outswerving, 

Sloped  to  his  knee,  and,  lightly  drop- 
ping downward, 

Drew  the  curved  lines  that  breathe, 
in  rest,  of  motion. 

He  saw  his  glorious  limbs  reversely 

mirrored 
In  the  still  wave,  and  stretched  his 

foot  to  press  it 
On  the  smooth  sole  that  answered  at 

the  surface : 
Alas !  the  shape  dissolved  in  glimmer- 
ing fragments. 
Then,  timidly  at  first,  he  dipped,  and 

catching 
Quick  breath,  with  tingling  shudder, 

as  the  waters 
Swirled  round  his  thighs,  and  deeper, 

slowly  deeper, 
Till  on  his  breast  the  River's  cheek 

was  pillowed, 
And  deeper  still,  till  every  shoreward 

ripple 
Talked  in  his  ear,  and  like  a  cygnet's 

bosom 
His  white,  round  shoulder  shed  the 

dripping  crystal. 
There,  as  he  floated,  with  a  rapturous 

motion, 
The     lucid    coolness    folding    close 

around  him, 
The  lily-cradling  ripples  murmured, 

"Hylas!" 
He  shook  from  off  his  ears  the  hyacin- 

thine 
Curls,  that  had  lain  unwet  upon  the 

water, 
And    still     the    ripples    murmured, 

"Hylas!  Hylas!" 
He  thought :  "The  voices  are  but  ear- 
born  music. 
Pan  dwells  not  here,  and  Echo  still  is 

calling 
From  some    high  cliff    that    tops  a 

Thracian  valley  : 
So  long  mine  ears,  on  tumbling  Helles- 

pontus, 
Have  heard  the   sea  waves  hammer 

Argo's  forehead, 
That  I  misdeem  the  fluting  of  this 

current 


For  some  lost  nymph  —  "    Again  the 

murmur,  ' '  Hylas  ! " 
And  with  the  sound  a  cold,  smooth 

arm  around  him 
Slid  like  a  wave,  and  down  the  clear, 

green  darkness 
Glimmered  on  either  side  a  shining 

bosom,  — 
Glimmered,  uprising  slow  ;  and  ever 

closer 
"Wound  the  cold  arms,  till,  climbing 

to  his  shoulders, 
Their  cheeks  lay  nestled,  while  the 

purple  tangles 
Their  loose  hair  made,  in  silken  mesh 

enwound  him. 
Their  eyes  of  clear,  pale  emerald  then 

uplifting, 
They  kissed   his  neck  with    lips  of 

humid  coral, 
And  once  again  there  came  a  murmur, 

"Hylas! 
O,  come  with  us!     O,  follow  where 

we  wander 
Deep  down  beneath  the  green,  trans- 
lucent ceiling,  — 
Where  on  the  sandy  bed  of  old  Sca- 

mander 
With  cool  white  buds  we  braid  our 

purple  tresses, 
Lulled  by  the  bubbling  waves  around 

us  stealing ! 
Thou  fair  Greek  boy,  O,  come  with 

us!     O,  follow 
Where  thou  no  more  shalt  hear  Pro- 

pontis  riot, 
Bat  by  our  arms  be  lapped  in  endless 

quiet, 
Within  the  glimmering  caves  of  Ocean 

hollow ! 
We  have  no  love;   alone,  of  all  the 

Immortals, 
We  have  no  love.     O,  love  us,  we  who 

press  thee 
With  faithful  arms,  though  cold,  — 

whose  lips  caress  thee,  — 
Who  hold  thy  beauty  prisoned  !  Love 

us,  Hylas  ! " 

The  boy  grew  chill  to  feel  their  twin- 
ing pressure 

Lock  round  his  limbs,  and  bear  him, 
vainly  striving, 

Down  from  the  noonday  brightness. 
"  Leave  me,  Naiads  ! 


36 


ROMANCES 


Leave  me !  "  he  cried ;  "  the  day  to  me 

is  dearer 
Than  all  your  caves  deep-sphered  in 

Ocean's  quiet. 
I  am  but    mortal,    seek  but  mortal 

pleasure  : 
I  would  not  change  this  flexile,  warm 

existence, 
Though  swept  by  storms,  and  shocked 

by  Jove's  dread  thunder, 
To  be  a  king  beneath  the  dark-green 

waters." 
Still  moaned  the  humid  lips,  between 

their  kisses, 
"We  have  no  love.     O,  love  us,  we 

who  love  thee  !  " 
And  came  in  answer,  thus,  the  words 

of  Hylas : 
"  My  love  is  mortal.     For  the  Argive 

maidens 
I    keep  the  kisses  which  your  lips 

would  ravish. 
Unlock  your  cold  white  arms,  —  take 

from  my  shoulder 
The  tangled  swell  of  your  bewildering 

tresses. 
Let  me  return  :  the  wind  comes  down 

from  Ida, 
And  soon  the  galley,  stirring  from  her 

slumber, 
Will  fret  to  ride  where  Pelion's  twi- 
light shadow 
Falls  o'er  the  towers  of  Jason's  sea- 
girt city. 
I  am  not  yours,  — I  cannot  braid  the 

lilies 
In  your  wet  hair,  nor  on  your  argent 

bosoms 
Close  my  drowsed  eyes  to  hear  your 

rippling  voices. 
Hateful  to  me  your  sweet,  cold,  crys- 
tal being,  — 
Your  world  of  watery  quiet.     Help, 

Apollo ! 
For  I  am  thine:  thy  fire,  thy  beam, 

thy  music, 
Dance  in  my  heart  and  flood  my  sense 

with  rapture ! 
The  joy,  the  warmth  and  passion  now 

awaken, 
Promised  by  thee,  but  erewhile  calmly 

sleeping. 
O,  leave  me,  Naiads  !  loose  your  chill 

embraces, 
Or  I  shall  die,  for  mortal  maidens  pin- 
ing." 


But  still  with  unrelenting  arms  they 

bound  him, 
And    still,    accordant,    flowed    their 

watery  voices : 
"We  have  thee  now,  — we  hold  thy 

beauty  prisoned  ; 
O,  come  with  us  beneath  the  emerald 

waters  ! 
We  have  no  love  :  we  have  thee,  rosy 

Hylas. 
O,  love  us,  who  shall  nevermore  re- 
lease thee  : 
Love  us,  whose  milky  arms  will  be 

thy  cradle 
Far  down  on  the  untroubled  sands  of 

ocean, 
Where  now  we  bear  thee,  clasped  in 

our  embraces." 
And  slowly,  slowly  sank  the  amorous 

Naiads ; 
The  boy's  blue  eyes,  upturned,  looked 

through  the  water, 
Pleading  for  help  ;  but  Heaven's  im- 
mortal Archer 
Was  swathed  in  cloud.     The  ripples 

hid  his  forehead, 
And  last,   the  thick,   bright   curls  a 

moment  floated, 
So  warm  and  silky  that  the  stream 

upbore  them, 
Closing  reluctant,   as    he    sank    for- 


The  sunset  died  behind  the  crags  of 
Imbros. 

Argo  was  tugging  at  her  chain ;  for 
freshly 

Blew  the  swift  breeze,  and  leaped  the 
restless  billows. 

The  voice  of  Jason  roused  the  dozing 
sailors, 

And  up  the  mast  was  heaved  the 
snowy  canvas. 

But  mighty  H^racl^s,  the  Jove-begot- 
ten, 

Unmindful  stood,  beside  the  cool  Sca- 
mander, 

Leaning  upon  his  club.  A  purple 
chlamys 

Tossed  o'er  an  urn  was  all  that  lay 
before  him : 

And  when  he  called,  expectant,  "  Hy- 
las! Hylas!" 

The  empty  echoes  made  him  answer, 
—  "Hylas!" 

1850. 


KUBLEH 


37 


KUBLEH 

A   STORY   OF   THE  ASSYRIAN  DESERT 

The  black-eyed  children  of  the  Desert 

drove 
Their  flocks  together  at  the  set  of  sun. 
The  tents  were  pitched;  the  weary 

camels  bent 
Their  suppliant  necks,  and  knelt  upon 

the  sand ; 
The  hunters  quartered  by  the  kindled 

fires 
The  wild  boars  of  the  Tigris  they  had 

slain, 
And  all  the  stir  and  sound  of  evening 

ran 
Throughout  the  Shammar  camp.    The 

dewy  air 
Bore  its  full  burden  of  confused  delight 
Across  the  flowery  plain  ;  and  while, 

afar, 
The  snows  of  Koordish  Mountains  in 

the  ray 
Flashed  roseate  amber,  Nimroud's  an- 
cient mound 
Rose  broad  and  black  against  the  burn- 
ing West. 
The  shadows  deepened,  and  the  stars 

came  out, 
Sparkling  in  violet  ether  ;  one  by  one 
Glimmered  the  ruddy   camp-fires  on 

the  plain, 
And  shapes  of  steed  and  horseman 

moved  among 
The  dusky  tents,  with  shout  and  jos- 
tling cry, 
And    neigh    and     restless    prancing. 

Children  ran 
To  hold  the  thongs,  while  every  rider 

drove 
His  quivering  spear  in  the  earth,  and 

by  his  door 
Tethered  the  horse  he  loved.     In  midst 

of  all 
Stood  Shammeriy ah,  whom  they  dared 

not  touch,  — 
The  foal  of  wondrous  Kubleh,  to  the 

Shekh 
A  dearer  wealth  than  all  his  Georgian 

girls. 

But  when  their  meal  was  o'er,  —  when 

the  red  fires 
Blazed  brighter,  and  the  dogs  no  longer 

bayed,  — 


When  Shammar  hunters  with  the  boys 
sat  down 

To  cleanse  their  bloody  knives,  came 
Alimar, 

The  poet  of  the  tribe,  whose  songs  of 
love 

Are  sweeter  than  Bassora's  nightin- 
gales, — 

Whose  songs  of  war  can  fire  the  Arab 
blood 

Like  war  itself  :  who  knows  not  Ali- 
mar ? 

Then  asked  the  men,  ' '  O  Poet,  sing  of 
Kubleh!" 

And  boys  laid  down  the  burnished 
knives  and  said, 

' '  Tell  us  of  Kubleh,  whom  we  never 
saw,  — 

Of  wondrous  Kubleh ! "  Closer  drew 
the  group, 

With  eager  eyes,  about  the  flickering 
fire, 

While  Alim&r,  beneath  the  Assyrian 
stars, 

Sang  to  the  listening  Arabs  : 

' '  God  is  great ! 
O  Arabs !  never  since  Mohammed  rode 
The  sands  of  Beder,  and  by  Mecca's 

gate 
That  winged  steed  bestrode,  whose 

mane  of  fire 
Blazed  up  the  zenith,  when,  by  Allah 

called, 
He  bore  the  Prophet  to  the  walls  of 

Heaven, 
Was  like  to  Kubleh,  Sofuk's  wondrous 

mare  : 
Not  all  the  milk-white  barbs,  whose 

hoofs  dashed  flame, 
In  Baghdad's  stables,  from  the  marble 

floor,  — 
Who,    swathed  in   purple    housings, 

pranced  in  state 
The  gay  bazaars,  by  great  Al-Raschid 

backed  : 
Not  the  wild  charger  of  Mongolian 

breed 
That  went  o'er  half  the  world  with 

Tamerlane : 
Nor  yet  those  flying  coursers,  long  ago 
From  Ormuz  brought  by  swarthy  In- 
dian grooms 
To  Persia's  kings,  —  the  foals  of  sacred 

mares, 
Sired  by  the  fiery  stallions  of  the  sea ! 


38 


ROMANCES 

in  all  the   Desert 
Who 


"  Who    ever  told 
Land, 

The  many  deeds  of  Kubleh  ? 
can  tell 

Whence  came  she  ?  whence  her  like 
shall  come  again  ? 

O  Arabs !  sweet  as  tales  of  Schehera- 
zade 

Heard  in  the  camp,  when  javelin  shafts 
are  tried 

On  the  hot  eve  of  battle,  are  the  words 

That  tell  the  marvels  of  her  history. 

"Far  in  the  Southern  sands,  the  hunt- 
ers say, 

Did  Sofuk  find  her,  by  a  lonely  palm. 

The  well  had  dried  ;  her  fierce,  impa- 
tient eye 

Glared  red  and  sunken,  and  her  slight 
young  limbs 

Were  lean  with  thirst.  He  checked 
his  camel's  pace, 

And,  while  it  knelt,  untied  the  water- 
skin, 

And  when  the  wild  mare  drank,  she 
followed  him. 

Thence  none  but  Sofuk  might  the  sad- 
dle gird 

Upon  her  back,  or  clasp  the  brazen 
gear 

About  Uer  shining  head,  that  brooked 
no  curb 

From  even  him  ;  for  she,  alike,  was 
royal. 

"  Her  form  was  lighter,  in  its  shifting 

grace, 
Than  some  impassioned  almeh's,  when 

the  dance 
Unbinds  her  scarf,  and  golden  anklets 

gleam, 
Through  floating    drapery,    on     the 

buoyant  air. 
Her  light,  free  head  was  ever  held 

aloft ; 
Between  her  slender  and  transparent 

ears 
The  silken  forelock  tossed  ;  her  nos- 
tril's arch, 
Thin-blown,    in     proud     and    pliant 

beauty  spread 
Snuffing  the  desert  winds.     Her  glossy 

neck 
Curved  to  the  shoulder  like  an  eagle's 

wing, 


And  all  her  matchless  lines  of  flank 
and  limb 

Seemed  fashioned  from  the  flying 
shapes  of  air. 

When  sounds  of  warlike  preparation 
rang 

From  tent  to  tent,  her  keen  and  rest- 
less eye 

Shone  blood-red  as  a  ruby,  and  her 
neigh 

Rang  wild  and  sharp  above  the  clash 
of  spears. 

' '  The  tribes  of  Tigris  and  the  Desert 

knew  her: 
Sofuk  before  the  Shammar  bands  she 

bore 
To  meet  the  dread  Jebours,  who  waited 

not 
To  bid  her  welcome ;  and  the  savage 

Koord, 
Chased  from  his  bold  irruption  on  the 

plain, 
Has  seen  her  hoof -prints  in  his  moun- 
tain snow. 
Lithe  as  the  dark-eyed  Syrian  gazelle, 
O'er  ledge,    and  chasm,   and  barren 

steep  amid 
The  Sin  jar-hills,  she  ran  the  wild  ass 

down. 
Through    many    a    battle's    thickest 

brunt  she  stormed, 
Reeking  with  sweat  and  dust,  and  fet- 
lock deep 
In  curdling  gore.     When  hot  and  lurid 

haze 
Stifled  the  crimson   sun,    she   swept 

before 
The  whirling  sand-spout,  till  her  gusty 

mane 
Flared  in  its  vortex,  while  the  camels 

lay 
Groaning  and  helpless  on  the  fiery 

waste. 

' '  The  tribes  of  Taurus  and  the  Cas- 
pian knew  her  : 

The  Georgian  chiefs  have  heard  her 
trumpet  neigh 

Before  the  walls  of  Tiflis  ;  pines  that 
grow 

On  ancient  Caucasus  have  harbored 
her, 

Sleeping  by  Sofuk  in  their  spicy 
gloom. 


METEMPSYCHOSIS   OF   THE   PINE 


39 


The  surf  of  Trebizond  has  bathed  her 

flanks, 
When  from  the  shore  she  saw    the 

white-sailed  bark 
That  brought  him  home  from  Stam- 

boul.     Never  yet, 
O  Arabs !  never  yet  was  like  to  Kubleh ! 


her. 


She   was 
oda- 


"And    Sofuk  loved 

more  to  him 
Than    all    his    snowy-bosomed 

lisques. 
For  many  years  she  stood  beside  his 

tent, 
The  glory  of  the  tribe. 

"  At  last  she  died,  — 

Died,  while  the  fire  was  yet  in  all  her 
limbs,  — 

Died  for  the  life  of  Sofuk,  whom  she 
loved. 

The  base  Jebours,  —  on  whom  be  Al- 
lah's curse  !  — 

Came  on  his  path,  when  far  from  any 
camp, 

And  would  have  slain  him,  but  that 
Kubleh  sprang 

Against  the  javelin  points,  and  bore 
them  down, 

And  gained  the  open  Desert.  Wounded 
sore, 

She  urged  her  light  limbs  into  madden- 
ing speed, 

And  made  the  wind  a  laggard.  On 
and  on 

The  red  sand  slid  beneath  her,  and 
behind 

"Whirled  in  a  swift  and  cloudy  turbu- 
lence, 

As  when  some  star  of  Eblis,  downward 
hurled 

By  Allah's  bolt,  sweeps  with  its  burn- 
ing hair 

The  waste  of  darkness.  On  and  on 
the  bleak, 

Bare  ridges  rose  before  her,  came,  and 
passed, 

And  every  flying  leap  with  fresher 
blood 

Her  nostrils  stained,  till  Sofuk's  brow 
and  breast 

Were  flecked  with  crimson  foam.  He 
would  have  turned 

To  save  his  treasure,  though  himself 
were  lost, 


But  Kubleh  fiercely  snapped  the  bra- 
zen rein. 
At  last,  when  through  her  spent  and 

quivering  frame 
The  sharp  throes  ran,  our  clustering 

tents  arose, 
And  with  a  neigh,  whose  shrill  access 

of  joy 
O'ercame  its  agony,  she  stopped  and 

fell. 
The  Shammar  men  came  round  her  as 

she  lay, 
And  Sofuk  raised  her  head,  and  held 

it  close 
Against  his  breast.       Her  dull    and 

glazing  eye 
Met  his,  and  with  a  shuddering  gasp 

she  died. 
Then  like  a  child  his  bursting  grief 

made  way 
In  passionate  tears,  and  with  him  all 

the  tribe 
Wept  for  the  faithful  mare. 

' '  They  dug  her  grave 
Amid  El-Hather's  marbles,  where  she 

lies 
Buried  with  ancient  kings  ;  and  since 

that  time 
Was  never  seen,  and  will  not  be  again, 
O  Arabs  !  though  the  world  be  doomed 

to  live 
As  many  moons  as  count  the  desert 

sands, 
The  like  of  glorious  Kubleh.     God  is 

great !  " 

1849. 

METEMPSYCHOSIS   OF  THE 
PINE 

As  when  the  haze  of  some  wan  moon- 
light makes 
Familiar  fields  a  land  of  mystery, 
Where,   chill  and  strange,  a  ghostly 
presence  wakes 
In  flower,  and  bush,  and  tree,  — 

Another  life,   the  life   of    Day  o'er- 
whelms ; 
The  Past  from  present  conscious- 
ness takes  hue, 
And  we  remember  vast  and  cloudy 
realms 
Our  feet  have  wandered  through : 


4Q 


ROMANCES 


So,  oft,  some  moonlight  of  the  mind 
makes  dumb 
The  stir  of  outer  thought :    wide 
open  seems 
The      gate     wherethrough      strange 
sympathies  have  come, 
The  secret  of  our  dreams ; 

The  source  of  fine  impressions,  shoot- 
ing deep 
Below  the  failing  plummet  of  the 
sense  ; 
Which  strike  beyond  all  Time,  and 
backward  sweep 
Through  all  intelligence. 

We  touch  the  lower  life  of  beast  and 
clod, 
And  the  long  process  of  the  ages  see 
From  blind  old  Chaos,  ere  the  breath 
of  God 
Moved  it  to  harmony. 

All  outward  wisdom  yields  to  that 
within, 
Whereof  nor  creed  nor  canon  holds 
the  key  ; 
We  only  feel  that  we  have  ever  been, 
And  evermore  shall  be. 

And  thus  I  know,  by  memories  un- 
furled 
In  rarer  moods,  and  many  a  name- 
less sign, 
That  once  in  Time,  and  somewhere  in 
the  world, 
I  was  a  towering  Pine, 

Rooted  upon  a  cape  that  overhung 
The  entrance  to  a  mountain  gorge 
whereon 
The  wintry  shadow  of  a  peak  was  flung, 
Long  after  rise  of  sun. 

Behind,  the  silent  snows;  and  wide 
below, 
The  rounded  hills  made  level,  lessen- 
ing down 
To  where  a  river  washed  with  sluggish 
flow 
A  many -templed  town. 

There  did  I  clutch  the  granite  with 
firm  feet, 
There  shake  my  boughs  above  the 
roaring  gulf, 


When  mountain  whirlwinds  through 
the  passes  beat, 
And  howled  the  mountain  wolf. 

There  did  I  louder  sing  than  all  the 
floods 
Whirled  in  white  foam  above  the 
precipice, 
And  the  sharp   sleet  that  stung  the 
naked  woods 
Answer  with  sullen  hiss  : 

But  when  the  peaceful  clouds  rose 
white  and  high 
On  blandest  airs  that  April  skies 
could  bring, 
Through  all  my  fibres  thrilled  the  ten- 
der sigh, 
The  sweet  unrest  of  Spring. 

She,  with  warm  fingers  laced  in  mine, 
did  melt 
In  fragrant  balsam  my    reluctant 
blood ; 
And  with  a  smart  of  keen  delight  I 
felt 
The  sap  in  every  bud, 

And  tingled  through  my  rough  old 
bark,  and  fast 
Pushed  out  the  younger  green,  that 
smoothed  my  tones, 
When  last  year's  needles  to  the  wind 
I  cast, 
And  shed  my  scaly  cones. 

I  held  the  eagle  till   the   mountain 
mist 
Rolled  from    the    azure    paths  he 
came  to  soar, 
And  like  a  hunter,    on  my  gnarled 
wrist 
The  dappled  falcon  bore. 

Poised  o'er  the  blue  abyss,  the  morn- 
ing lark 
Sang,  wheeling  near  in  rapturous 
carouse ; 
And     hart     and    hind,     soft-pacing 
through  the  dark, 
Slept  underneath  my  boughs. 

Down  on  the  pasture-slopes  the  herds- 
man lay, 
And  for  the  flock  his  birchen  trum- 
pet blew; 


METEMPSYCHOSIS   OF   THE   PINE 


4i 


There  ruddy  children  tumbled  in  their 
play, 
And  lovers  came  to  woo. 

And  once    an  army,    crowned    with 
triumph,  came 
Out  of  the  hollow  bosom  of  the 
gorge, 
"With  mighty  banners  in  the    wind 
aflame, 
Borne  on  a  glittering  surge 

Of  tossing  spears,  a  flood  that  home- 
ward rolled, 
While  cymbals  timed  their  steps  of 
victory, 
And     horn   and    clarion    from   their 
throats  of  gold 
Sang  with  a  savage  glee. 

I  felt  the  mountain  walls  below  me 
shake, 
Vibrant  with   sound,    and  through 
my  branches  poured 
The  glorious  gust :  my  song  thereto 
did  make 
Magnificent  accord. 

Some  blind  harmonic  instinct  pierced 
the  rind 
Of  that  slow  life  which  made  me 
straight  and  high, 
And    I    became    a    harp    for    every 
wind, 
A  voice  for  every  sky ; 

When  fierce  autumnal  gales  began  to 
blow, 
Roaring  all  day  in  concert,  hoarse 
and  deep  ; 
And  then  made  silent  with  my  weight 
of  snow  — 
A  spectre  on  the  steep  ; 

Filled  with  a  whispering  gush,  like 
that  which  flows 
Through  organ-stops,    when    sank 
the  sun's  red  disk 
Beyond  the  city,  and  in  blackness  rose 
Temple  and  obelisk ; 

Or  breathing  soft,  as  one  who  sighs  in 
prayer, 
Mysterious  sounds  of  portent  and  of 
might, 


What  time  I  felt  the  wandering  waves 
of  air 
Pulsating  through  the  night. 

And  thus  for  centuries  my  rhythmic 
chant 
Rolled  down  the  gorge,  or  surged 
about  the  hill : 
Gentle,  or  stern,  or  sad,  or  jubilant, 
At  every  season's  will. 

No  longer  Memory  whispers  whence 
arose 
The  doom  that  tore  me  from  my 
place  of  pride  : 
Whether  the  storms  that  load  the  peak 
with  snows, 
And  start  the  mountain-slide, 

Let  fall  a  fiery  bolt  to  smite  my  top, 
Upwrenched  my  roots,  and  o'er  the 
precipice 
Hurled  me,  a  dangling  wreck,  erelong 
to  drop 
Into  the  wild  abyss ; 

Or  whether  hands  of  men,  with  scorn- 
ful strength 
And  force  from    Nature's    rugged 
armory  lent, 
Sawed  through  my  heart  and  rolled 
my  tumbling  length 
Sheer  down  the  steep  descent. 

All  sense  departed,  with  the  boughs  I 
wore  ; 
And  though  I  moved  with  mighty 
gales  at  strife, 
A  mast  upon  the  seas,  I  sang  no  more, 
And  music  was  my  life. 

Yet  still  that    life    awakens,   brings 
again 
Its  airy  anthems,  resonant  and  long, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky,  transfigured,  fill 
my  brain 
With  rhythmic  sweeps  of  song. 

Thence  am  I  made  a  poet :  thence  are 
sprung 
Those  shadowy  motions  of  the  soul, 
that  reach 
Beyond  all  grasp  of  Art,  —  for  which 
the  tongue 
Is  ignorant  of  speech. 


42 


ROMANCES 


And  if  some  wild,  full-gathered  har- 
mony 
Roll  its  unbroken  music  through  my 
line, 
There    lives    and    murmurs,    faintly 
though  it  be, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Pine. 

1851. 


THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE  PARD 

A  second  deluge !    Well,  —  no  mat- 
ter :  here, 
At  least,  is  better  shelter '  than  the 

lean, 
Sharp-elbowed  oaks,  — a  dismal  com- 
pany! 
That  stood  around  us  in  the  mountain 

road 
When  that  cursed  axle  broke  :  a  roof 

of  thatch, 
A  fire  of  withered  boughs,  and  best 

of  all, 
This  ruddy  wine  of  Languedoc,  that 

warms 
One  through  and  through,  from  heart 

to  finger-ends. 
No  better  quarters  for  a  stormy  night 
A  soldier,  like  myself,  could  ask ;  and 

since 
The  rough  Cevennes  refuse  to  let  us 

forth, 
Why,  fellow-travellers,  if  so  you  will, 
I  '11  tell  the  story  cut  so  rudely  short 
When   both  fore-wheels  broke  from 

the  diligence, 
Stocked  in  the  rut,  and  pitched  us  all 

together : 
I  said,  we  fought  beside  the  Pyramids ; 
And  somehow,  from  the  glow  of  this 

good  wine, 
And  from  the  gloomy  rain,  that  shuts 

one  in 
With  his  own   self,  — a  sorry  mate 

sometimes !  — 
The  scene  comes  back  like  life.     As 

then,  I  feel 
The  sun,  and  breathe  the  hot  Egyptian 

air, 
Hear  Kleber,  see  the  sabre  of  Dessaix 
Flash  at  the  column's  front,  and  in  the 

midst 
Napoleon,  upon  his  Barbary  horse, 
Calm,     swarthy-browed,     and    wiser 

than  the  Sphinx 


Whose  granite    lips    guard    Egypt's 

mystery. 
Ha !  what  a  rout !  our  cannon  bellowed 

round 
The  Pyramids  :  the  Mamelukes  closed 

in, 
And  hand  to  hand  like  devils  did  we 

fight, 
Rolled  towards  Sakkara  in  the  smoke 

and  sand. 

For  days  we  followed  up  the  Nile. 

We  pitched 
Our  tents  in  Memphis,  pitched  them 

on  the  site 
Of  Antinoe,  and  beside  the  cliffs 
Of  Aboufayda.     Then  we  came  anon 
On  Kenneh,  ere  the  sorely-frightened 

Bey 
Had  time  to  pack  his  harem  :  nay,  we 

took 
His  camels,  not  his  wives :   and  so, 

from  day 
To  day,  past  wrecks  of  temples  half 

submerged 
In  sandy  inundation,  till  we  saw 
Old  noseless  Memnon  sitting  on  the 

plain, 
Both  hands  upon  his  knees,  and  in  the 

east 
Karnak's    propylon  and    its  pillared 

court. 
The  sphinxes  wondered  —  such  as  had 

a  face  — 
To  see  us  stumbling  down  their  ave- 
nues ; 
But  we  kept  silent.    One  may  whistle 

round 
Your  Roman  temples  here  at  Nismes, 

or  dance 
Upon  the  Pont  du  Gard ;  —  but,  take 

my  word, 
Egyptian  ruins  are  a  serious  thing  : 
You  would  not  dare  let  fly  a  joke  be- 
side 
The    maimed    colossi,    though    your 

very  feet 
Might  catch  between  some  mummied 

Pharaoh's  ribs. 

Dessaix  was  bent  on  chasing  Mame- 
lukes, 

And  so  we  rummaged  tomb  and  cata- 
comb, 

Clambered  the  hills  and  watched  the 
Desert's  rim 


THE   SPHINX  (Page  42) 


THE    SOLDIER   AND   THE    PARD 


43 


For  sight  of  horse.    One  day  iny  com- 
pany 
(I  was  but  ensign  then)  found  far 

within 
The  sands,  a  two-days'  journey  from 

the  Nile, 
A  round  oasis,  like  a  jewel  set. 
It  was  a  grove  of  date-trees,  clustering 

close 
About  a  tiny  spring,  whose  overflow 
Trickled  beyond  their  shade  a  little 

space, 
And  the  insatiate    Desert    licked   it 

up. 
The  fiery  ride,  the  glare  of  afternoon 
Had  burned  our  faces,  so  we  stopped 

to  feel 
The  coolness  and  the  shadow,  like  a 

bath 
Of  pure  ambrosial  lymph,  receive  our 

limbs 
And  sweeten  every  sense.     Drowsed 

by  the  soft, 
Delicious  greenness  and  repose,  I  crept 
Into  a  balmy  nest  of  yielding  shrubs, 
And  floated  off  to  slumber  on  a  cloud 
Of  rapturous  sensation. 

When  I  woke, 
So  deep  had  been  the  oblivion  of  that 

sleep, 
That  Adam,  when  he  woke  in  Para- 
dise, 
"Was  not  more  blank  of  knowledge  ; 

he  had  felt 
As   heedlessly,    the   silence  and    the 

shade  ; 
As  ignorantly  had  raised  his  eyes  and 

seen  — 
As,  for  a  moment,  I  —  what  then  I 

saw 
With  terror,  freezing  limb  and  voice 

like  death, 
"When  the  slow  sense,  supplying  one 

lost  link, 
Ran   with   electric   fleetness  through 

the  chain 
And  showed  me  what   I  was,  —  no 

miracle, 
But  lost  and  left  alone  amid  the  waste, 
Fronting   a  deadly   Pard,    that  kept 

great  eyes 
Fixed  steadily  on  mine.     I  could  not 

move : 
My  heart  beat  slow  and  hard  :  I  sat 

and  gazed, 


Without  a  wink,  upon  those  jasper 

orbs, 
Noting  the  while,  with  horrible  detail, 
Whereto    my    fascinated    sight    was 

bound, 
Their  tawny  brilliance,  and  the  spotted 

fell 
That  wrinkled  round  them,  smoothly 

sloping  back 
And  curving  to  the  short  and  tufted 

ears. 
I  felt  —  and  with  a  sort    of    fearful 

joy  — 
The  beauty  of  the  creature  :  't  was  a 

pard, 
Not  such  as  one  of  those  they  show 

you  caged 
In  Paris,  —  lean    and   scurvy  beasts 

enough ! 
No  :    but  a  desert  pard,  superb  and 

proud, 
That  would  have  died    behind    the 

cruel  bars. 

I  think  the  creature  had  not  looked  on 

man, 
For,  as  my  brain  grew  cooler,  I  could 

see 
Small  sign  of  fierceness  in  her  eyes, 

but  chief, 
Surprise    and    wonder.       More    and 

more  entranced, 
Her  savage  beauty  warmed  away  the 

chill 
Of  deathlike  terror  at  my  heart :   I 

stared 
With  kindling  admiration,  and  there 

came 
A  gradual    softness  o'er    the    flinty 

light 
Within    her    eyes ;    a    shadow  crept 

around 
Their    yellow   disks,    and    something 

like  a  dawn 
Of  recognition  of  superior  will, 
Of  brute  affection,  sympathy  enslaved 
By  higher  nature,  then  informed  her 

face. 
Thrilling  in  every  nerve,  I  stretched 

my  hand,  — 
She  silent,   moveless,  —  touched  her 

velvet  head, 
And  with  a  warm,  sweet  shiver  in  my 

blood, 
Stroked  down  the  ruffled  hairs.     She 

did  not  start ; 


44 


ROMANCES 

lapse,  drew  up 
-  another,  —  till 


But,    in  a  moment's 
one  paw 

And  moved  a   step, 
her  breath 

Came  hot  upon  my  face.   She  stopped : 
she  rolled 

A  deep -voiced  note  of  pleasure  and  of 
love, 

And  gathering  up  her  spotted  length, 
lay  down, 

Her  head  upon  my  lap,  and  forward 
thrust 

One  heavy-moulded  paw  across  my 
knees, 

The  glittering  talons  sheathing  ten- 
derly. 

Thus  we,  in  that  oasis  all  alone, 

Sat  when  the  sun  went  down :  the 
Pard  and  I, 

Caressing  and  caressed:  and  more  of 
love 

And  more  of  confidence  between  us 
came, 

I  grateful  for  my  safety,  she  alive 

With  the  dumb  pleasure  of  companion- 
ship, 

Which  touched  with  instincts  of  hu- 
manity 

Her  brutish  nature.     When  I  slept,  at 
last, 
V  My  arm  was  on  her  neck. 

The  morrow  brought 
No  rupture  of  the  bond  between  us 

twain. 
The  creature  loved  me;    she  would 

bounding  come, 
Cat-like,  to  rub  her  great,  smooth,  yel- 
low head 
Against  my  knee,  or  with  rough  tongue 

would  lick 
The  hand  that  stroked  the  velvet  of 

her  hide. 
How  beautiful  she  was !    how  lithe 

and  free 
The  undulating  motions  of  her  frame ! 
How  shone,  like  isles  of  tawny  gold, 

her  spots, 
Mapped  on  the  creamy  white!    And 

when  she  walked, 
No  princess,  with  the  crown  about 

her  brows, 
Looked  so  superbly  royal.     Ah,   my 

friends, 
Smile  as  you  may,  but  I  would  give 

this  life 


With  its    fantastic    pleasures  —  aye, 

even  that 
One  leads  in  Paris  —  to  be  back  again 
In  the  red  Desert  with  my  splendid 

Pard. 


That  grove  of  date-trees  was  our  home, 

our  world, 
A  star  of  verdure  in  a  sky  of  sand. 
Without  the   feathery   fringes  of  its 

shade 
The  naked  Desert  ran,   its   burning 

round 
Sharp  as  a    sword :    the  naked  sky 

above, 
Awful  in  its  immensity,  not  shone 
There  only,  where  the  sun  supremely 

flamed, 
But  all  its  deep-blue  walls  were  pene- 
trant 
With  dazzling  light.     God  reigned  in 

Heaven  and  Earth, 
An  Everlasting  Presence,  and  his  care 
Fed  us,  alike  his  children.     From  the 

trees 
That  shook  down  pulpy  dates,  and 

from  the  spring, 
The  quiet  author  of  that  happy  grove, 
My  wants  were  sated ;  and  when  mid- 
night came, 
Then  would  the  Pard  steal  softly  from 

my  side, 
Take  the  unmeasured  sand  with  flying 

leaps 
And  vanish  in  the   dusk,    returning 

soon 
With  a  gazelle's  light  carcass  in  her 

jaws. 
So  passed  the  days,  and  each  the  other 

taught 
Our  simple  language.       She   would 

come  at  call 
Of  the  pet  name  I  gave  her,  bound 

and  sport 
When  so  I  bade,  and  she  could  read 

my  face 
Through  all  its  changing  moods,  with 

better  skill 
Than  many  a  Christian  comrade.   Pard 

and  beast, 
Though  you  may  say  she  was,  she  had 

a  soul. 

But  Sin  will  find  the  way  to  Para- 
dise. 
Erelong  the  sense  of  isolation  fed 


THE   SOLDIER   AND   THE   PARD 


45 


My  mind  with  restless  fancies.     I  be- 
gan 
To  miss  the  life  of  camp,  the  march, 

the  fight, 
The    soldier's     emulation  :    youthful 

blood 
Ran  in  my  veins  :  the  silence  lost  its 

charm, 
And  when  the  morning  sunrise  lighted 

up 
The  threshold  of  the  Desert,  I  would 

gaze 
With  looks  of  bitter  longing  o'er  the 

sand. 
At  last,  I  filled  my  soldier's  sash  with 

dates. 
Drank  deeply  of  the  spring,  and  while 

the  Pard 
Roamed  in  the  starlight  for  her  forage 

took 
A  westward  course.     The  grove  al- 
ready lay 
A    dusky    speck  —  no    more  —  when 

through  the  night 
Came   the   forsaken  creature's   eager 

cry. 
Into  a  sandy  pit  I  crept,  and  heard 
Her  bounding  on  my  track  until  she 

rolled 
Down  from  the  brink  upon  me.     Then 

with  cries 
Of  joy  and  of  distress,  the  touching 

proof 
Of  the  poor  beast's  affection,  did  she 

strive 
To  lift  me —    Pardon,  friends!  these 

foolish  eyes 
Must  have  their  will :   and  had  you 

seen  her  then, 
In  her  mad  gambols,  as  we  homeward 

went, 
Your  hearts  had  softened  too. 

But  I,  possessed 
By  some  vile  devil  of  mistrust,  became 
More  jealous  and  impatient.     In  my 

heart 
I  cursed  the  grove,  and  with  suspicions 

wronged 
The  noble  Pard.     She  keeps  me  here, 

I  thought, 
Deceived    with    false    caresses,   as  a 

cat 
Toys  with  the  trembling  mouse  she 

straight  devours. 
Will  she  so  gently  fawn  about  my  feet, 


When  the  gazelles  are  gone  ?     Will 

she  crunch  dates, 
And    drink  the  spring,    whose    only 

drink  is  blood  ? 
Am    I  to    ruin    flattered,     and    by 

whom  ?  — 
Not  even  a  man,  a  wily  beast  of  prey. 
Thus  did  the  Devil  whisper  in  mine 

ear, 
Till  those  black  thoughts  were  rooted 

in  my  heart 
And  made  me  cruel.     So  it  chanced 

one  day, 
That  as  I  watched  a  flock  of  birds 

that  wheeled, 
And  dipped,  and  circled  in  the  air,  the 

Pard, 
Moved  by  a  freak  of  fond  solicitude 
To  win  my  notice,  closed  her  careful 

fangs 
About    my  knee.      Scarce   knowing 

what  I  did, 
In  the  blind  impulse  of  suspicious 

fear, 
I  plunged,  full  home,  my  dagger  in 

her  neck. 
God!   could  I  but  recall  that  blow! 

She  loosed 
Her  hold,  as  softly  as  a  lover  quits 
His  mistress'  lips,  and  with  a  single 

groan, 
Full  of  reproach  and   sorrow,    sank 

and  died. 
What  had  I  done !    Sure  never  on  this 

earth 
Did  sharper  grief  so  base  a  deed  re- 
quite. 
Its  murderous  fury  gone,  my  heart 

was  racked 
With  pangs  of  wild  contrition,  spent 

itself 
In  cries  and  tears,  the  while  I  called 

on  God 
To  curse  me  for  my  sin.     There  lay 

the  Pard, 
Her  splendid  eyes  all  film,  her  bla- 
zoned fell 
Smirched  with  her  blood  ;  and  I,  her 

murderer, 
Less  than  a  beast,  had  thus  repaid  her 

love. 

Ah,  friends!  with  all  this  guilty 
memory 

My  heart  is  sore  :  and  little  now  re- 
mains 


46 


ROMANCES 


To  tell  you,  but  that  afterwards  — 

how  long, 
I    could    not     know  —  our    soldiers 

picked  me  up, 
Wandering   about  the   Desert,   wild 

with  grief 
And  sobbing  like  a  child.     My  nerves 

have  grown 
To  steel,  in  many  battles  ;  I  can  step 
Without  a  shudder  through  the  heaps 

of  slain ; 
But  never,  never,  till  the  day  I  die, 
Prevent  a  woman's  weakness  when  I 

think 
Upon  my  desert  Pard  :  and  if  a  man 
Deny  this  truth  she  taught  me,  to  his 

face 
I  say  he  lies :  a  beast  may  have  a  soul. 

1851. 


ARIEL  IN  THE  CLOVEN  PINE 

Now  the  frosty  stars  are  gone : 
I  have  watched  them  one  by  one, 
Fading  on  the  shores  of  Dawn. 
Round  and  full  the  glorious  sun 
Walks  with  level  step  the  spray, 
Through  his  vestibule  of  Day, 
While  the  wolves  that  late  did  howl 
Slink  to  dens  and  coverts  foul, 
Guarded  by  the  demon  owl, 
Who,  last  night,  with  mocking  croon, 
Wheeled  athwart  the  chilly  moon, 
And  with  eyes  that  blankly  glared 
On  my  direful  torment  stared. 

The  lark  is  flickering  in  the  light ; 
Still  the  nightingale  doth  sing  ;  — 
All  the  isle,  alive  with  Spring, 
Lies,  a  jewel  of  delight, 
On  the  blue  sea's  heaving  breast : 
Not  a  breath  from  out  the  West, 
But  some  balmy  smell  doth  bring 
From  the  sprouting  myrtle  buds, 
Or  from  meadowy  vales  that  lie 
Like  a  green  inverted  sky, 
Which  the  yellow  cowslip  stars, 
And  the  bloomy  almond  woods, 
Cloud -like,  cross  with  roseate  bars. 
All  is  life  that  I  can  spy, 
To  the  farthest  sea  and  sky, 
And  my  own  the  only  pain 
Within  this  ring  of  Tyrrhene  main. 

In  the  gnarled  and  cloven  Pine 


Where  that  hell-born  hag  did  chain 

me 
All  this  orb  of  cloudless  shine, 
All  this  youth  in  Nature's  veins 
Tingling  with  the  season's  wine, 
With  a  sharper  torment  pain  me. 
Pansies  in  soft  April  rains 
Fill  their  stalks  with  honeyed  sap 
Drawn  from  Earth's  prolific  lap  ; 
But  the  sluggish  blood  she  brings 
To  the  tough  Pine's  hundred  rings 
Closer  locks  their  cruel  hold, 
Closer  draws  the  scaly  bark 
Round  the  crevice,  damp  and  cold, 
Where  my  useless  wings  I  fold,  — 
Sealing  me  in  iron  dark. 
By  this  coarse  and  alien  state 
Is  my  dainty  essence  wronged ; 
Finer  senses  that  belonged 
To  my  freedom,  chafe  at  Fate, 
Till  the  happier  elves  I  hate, 
Who  in  moonlight  dances  turn 
Underneath  the  palmy  fern, 
Or  in  light  and  twinkling  bands 
Follow  on  with  linked  hands 
To  the  Ocean's  yellow  sands. 

Primrose-eyes  each  morning  ope 

In  their  cool,  deep  beds  of  grass ; 

Violets  make  the  airs  that  pass 

Telltales  of  their  fragrant  slope. 

I  can  see  them  where  they  spring 

Never  brushed  by  fairy  wing. 

All  those  corners  I  can  spy 

In  the  island's  solitude, 

Where  the  dew  is  never  dry, 

Nor  the  miser  bees  intrude. 

Cups  of  rarest  hue  are  there, 

Full  of  perfumed  wine  undrained,  — 

Mushroom  banquets,  ne'er  profaned, 

Canopied  by  maiden-hair. 

Pearls  I  see  upon  the  sands, 

Never  touched  by  other  hands, 

And  the  rainbow  bubbles  shine 

On  the  ridged  and  frothy  brine, 

Tenantless  of  voyager 

Till  they  burst  in  vacant  air. 

Oh,  the  songs  that  sung  might  be, 

And  the  mazy  dances  woven, 

Had  that  witch  ne'er  crossed  the  sea 

And  the  Pine  been  never  cloven ! 

Many  years  my  direst  pain 
Has  made  the  wave-rocked  isle  com- 
plain. 
Winds,  that  from  the  Cyclades 


ARIEL   IN   THE   CLOVEN    PINE 


47 


Came,  to  blow  in  wanton  riot 
Round  its  shore's  enchanted  quiet, 
Bore  my  wailings  on  the  seas  : 
SoiTOwing  birds  in  Autumn  went 
Through  the  world  with  my  lament. 
Still  the  bitter  fate  is  mine, 


All  delight  unshared  to  see, 
Smarting  in  the  cloven  Pine, 
While  I  wait  the  tardy  axe 
Which,  perchance,  shall  set  me  free 
From  the  damned  Witch  Sycorax. 
1849.     ' 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


Da  der  West  war  durchgekostet, 
Hat  er  nun  den  Ost  entmostet. 

Ruckert. 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 

1851-1854 

PROEM   DEDICATORY 

AN  EPISTLE  FROM  MOUNT  TMOLUS 
TO  RICHARD  HENRY   STODDARD 


O  Friend,  were  you  but  couched  on  Tmolus'  side, 
In  the  warm  myrtles,  in  the  golden  air 
Of  the  declining  day,  which  half  lays  bare, 

Half  drapes,  the  silent  mountains  and  the  wide 

Embosomed  vale,  that  wanders  to  the  sea  ; 
And  the  far  sea,  with  doubtful  specks  of  sail, 

And  farthest  isles,  that  slumber  tranquilly 
Beneath  the  Ionian  autumn's  violet  veil ;  — 

"Were  you  but  with  me,  little  were  the  need 
Of  this  imperfect  artifice  of  rhyme, 
Where  the  strong  Fancy  peals  a  broken  chime 

And  the  ripe  brain  but  sheds  abortive  seed. 

But  I  am  solitary,  and  the  curse, 

Or  blessing,  which  has  clung  to  me  from  birth  — 

The  torment  and  the  ecstasy  of  verse  — 
Comes  up  to  me  from  the  illustrious  earth 

Of  ancient  Tmolus ;  and  the  very  stones, 

Reverberant,  din  the  mellow  air  with  tones 

Which  the  sweet  air  remembers  ;  and  they  blend 
With  fainter  echoes,  which  the  mountains  fling 

From  far  oracular  caverns :  so,  my  Friend, 
I  cannot  choose  but  sing  ! 


Unto  mine  eye,  less  plain  the  shepherds  be, 

Tending  their  browsing  goats  amid  the  broom, 
Or  the  slow  camels,  travelling  towards  the  sea, 

Laden  with  bales  from  Baghdad's  gaudy  loom, 
Or  yon  nomadic  Turcomans,  that  go 

Down  from  their  summer  pastures  —  than  the  twain 
Immortals,  who  on  Tmolus'  thymy  top 

Sang,  emulous,  the  rival  strain ! 
Down  the  charmed  air  did  light  Apollo  drop  ; 
Great  Pan  ascended  from  the  vales  below. 
I  see  them  sitting  in  the  silent  glow  ; 
I  hear  the  alternating  measures  flow 


52  POEMS   OF  THE   ORIENT 

From  pipe  and  golden  lyre  ;  —  the  melody 

Heard  by  the  Gods  between  their  nectar  bowls, 
Or  when,  from  out  the  chambers  of  the  sea, 

Comes  the  triumphant  Morning,  and  unrolls 
A  pathway  for  the  sun  ;  then,  following  swift, 

The  daedal  harmonies  of  awful  caves 
Cleft  in  the  hills,  and  forests  that  uplift 

Their  sea-like  boom,  in  answer  to  the  waves, 
With  many  a  lighter  strain,  that  dances  o'er 
The  wedded  reeds,  till  Echo  strives  in  vain 
To  follow  : 
Hark !  once  more, 
How  floats  the  God's  exultant  strain 
In  answer  to  Apollo ! 

"  The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes. 
The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme, 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicdle  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass 
Are  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was, 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. " 


I  cannot  separate  the  minstrels'  worth  ; 
Each  is  alike  transcendent  and  divine. 

What  were  the  Day,  unless  it  lighted  Earth  ? 
And  what  were  Earth,  should  Day  forget  to  shine  ! 

But  were  you  here,  my  Friend,  we  twain  would  build 
Two  altars,  on  the  mountain's  sunward  side  : 
There  Pan  should  o'er  my  sacrifice  preside, 

And  there  Apollo  your  oblation  gild. 

He  is  your  God,  but  mine  is  shaggy  Pan  ; 
Yet,  as  their  music  no  discordance  made, 
So  shall  our  offerings  side  by  side  be  laid, 

And  the  same  wind  the  rival  incense  fan. 


You  strain  your  ear  to  catch  the  harmonies 

That  in  some  finer  region  have  their  birth ; 
I  turn,  despairing,  from  the  quest  of  these, 

And  seek  to  learn  the  native  tongue  of  Earth. 
In  "Fancy's  tropic  clime  "  your  castle  stands, 

A  shining  miracle  of  rarest  art ; 
I  pitch  my  tent  upon  the  naked  sands, 
And  the  tall  palm,  that  plumes  the  orient  lands, 

Can  with  its  beauty  satisfy  my  heart. 
You,  in  your  starry  trances,  breathe  the  air 

Of  lost  Elysium,  pluck  the  snowy  bells 

Of  lotus  and  Olympian  asphodels, 
And  bid  us  their  diviner  odors  share. 
I  at  the  threshold  of  that  world  have  lain, 

Gazed  on  its  glory,  heard  the  grand  acclaim 

Wherewith  its  trumpets  hail  the  sons  of  Fame, 
And  striven  its  speech  to  master  —  but  in  vain. 


A   FJEAN   TO   THE   DAWN 


53 


And  now  I  turn,  to  find  a  late  content 

In  Nature,  makiug  mine  her  myriad  shows ; 

Better  contented  with  one  living  rose 
Than  all  the  Gods'  ambrosia  ;  sternly  bent 
On  wresting  from  her  hand  the  cup,  whence  flow 

The  flavors  of  her  ruddiest  life —  the  change 

Of  climes  and  races  —  the  unshackled  range 
Of  all  experience  ;  —  that  my  songs  may  show 
The  warm  red  blood  that  beats  in  hearts  of  men, 
And  those  who  read  them  in  the  festering  den 

Of  cities,  may  behold  the  open  sky, 
And  hear  the  rhythm  of  the  winds  that  blow, 

Instinct  with  Freedom.     Blame  me  not,  that  I 
Find  in  the  forms  of  Earth  a  deeper  joy 
Than  in  the  dreams  which  lured  me  as  a  boy, 
And  leave  the  Heavens,  where  you  are  wandering  still 

With  bright  Apollo,  to  converse  with  Pan  ; 

For,  though  full  soon  our  courses  separate  ran, 
We,  like  the  Gods,  can  meet  on  Tmolus'  hill. 


There  is  no  jealous  rivalry  in  Song  : 

I  see  your  altar  on  the  hill-top  shine. 

And  mine  is  built  in  shadows  of  the  Pine, 
Yet  the  same  worships  unto  each  belong. 
Different  the  Gods,  yet  one  the  sacred  awe 

Their  presence  brings  us,  one  the  reverent  heart 
Wherewith  we  honor  the  immortal  law 

Of  that  high  inspiration,  which  is  Art. 
Take,  therefore,  Friend !  these  Voices  of  the  Earth, 

The  rhythmic  records  of  my  life's  career, 
Humble,  perhaps,  yet  wanting  not  the  worth 

Of  Truth,  and  to  the  heart  of  Nature  near. 
Take  them,  and  your  acceptance,  in  the  dearth 

Of  the  world's  tardy  praise,  shall  make  them  dear. 


A  PJEAN  TO   THE  DAWN 


The  dusky  sky  fades  into  blue, 

And  bluer  waters  bind  us; 
The   stars  are  glimmering  faint  and 
few, 

The  night  is  left  behind  us ! 
Turn    not    where    sinks     the    sullen 
dark 

Before  the  signs  of  warning, 
But  crowd  the  canvas  on  our  bark 

And  sail  to  meet  the  morning. 
Rejoice!  rejoice!  the  hues  that  fill 

The  orient,  flush  and  lighten ; 
And  over  the  blue  Ionian  hill 

The  Dawn  begins  to  brighten ! 


We  leave  the  Night,  that  weighed  so 
long 
Upon  the  soul's  endeavor, 
For  Morning,  on  these  hills  of  Song, 

Has  made  her  home  forever. 
Hark  to  the  sound    of    trump    and 
lyre, 
In  the  olive -groves  before  us, 
And  the  rhythmic  beat,  the  pulse  of 
fire 
Throbs  in  the  full-voice  chorus ! 
More     than     Memnonian     grandeur 
speaks 
In  the  triumph  of  the  paean, 
And  all  the  glory  of  the  Greeks 
Breathes  o'er  the  old  ^Egean. 


54 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


in 
Here  shall  the  ancient  Dawn  return, 

That  lit  the  earliest  poet, 
Whose  very  ashes  in  his  urn 

Would  radiate  glory  through  it,  — 
The  dawn  of  Life,  when  Life  was 
Song, 

And  Song  the  life  of  Nature, 
And    the    Singer    stood     amid    the 
throng,  — 

A  God  in  every  feature  ! 
When  Love  was  free,  and  free  as  air 

The  utterance  of  Passion, 
And  the  heart  in  every  fold  lay  bare, 

Nor  shamed  its  true  expression. 

IV 

Then  perfect  limb  and  perfect  face 

Surpassed  our  best  ideal ; 
Unconscious  Nature's  law  was  grace, — 

The  Beautiful  was  real. 
For  men  acknowledged  true  desires, 

And  light  as  garlands  wore  them  ; 
They  were  begot  by  vigorous  sires, 

And  noble  mothers  bore  them. 
Oh,   when  the  shapes  of   Art    they 
planned 

Were  living  forms  of  passion, 
Impulse  and  Deed  went  hand  in  hand, 

And  Life  was  more  than  Fashion  ! 


The  seeds  of  Song  they  scattered  first 

Flower  in  all  later  pages  ; 
Their  forms  have  woke  the  Artist's 
thirst 

Through  the  succeeding  ages : 
But  I  will  seek  the  fountain-head 

Whence  flowed  their  inspiration, 
And  lead  the  unshackled  life  they  led, 

Accordant  with  Creation. 
The  World's  false  life,  that  follows 
still, 

Has  ceased  its  chain  to  tighten, 
And  over  the  blue  Ionian  hill 

I  see  the  sunrise  brighten ! 

1854. 

THE  POET  IN  THE  EAST 

The  Poet  came  to  the  Land  of  the 
East, 
When  spring  was  in  the  air. : 
The  Earth  was  dressed  for  a  wedding 
feast, 
So  young  she  seemed,  and  fair ; 


And  the  Poet  knew  the  Land  of  the 
East,  — 
His  soul  was  native  there. 

All  things  to    him  were   the  visible 
forms 
Of  early  and  precious  dreams,  — 
Familiar     visions     that    mocked  his 
quest 
Beside  the  Western  streams, 
Or  gleamed  in  the  gold  of  the  clouds, 
unrolled 
In  the  sunset's  dying  beams. 

He  looked  above  in  the  cloudless  calm, 
And  the  Sun  sat  on  his  throne  ; 

The  breath  of  gardens,  deep  in  balm, 
Was  all  about  him  blown, 

And  a  brother  to  him  was  the  princely 
Palm, 
For  he  cannot  live  alone. 

His  feet  went  forth  on  the  myrtled 
hills, 

And  the  flowers  their  welcome  shed  ; 
The  meads  of  milk-white  asphodel 

They  knew  the  Poet's  tread, 
And  far  and  wide,  in  a  scarlet  tide, 

The  poppy's  bonfire  spread. 

And,  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun, 
The  Rose  sat  in  her  bower, 

With  a  passionate  thrill  in  her  crimson 
heart  — 
She  had  waited  for  the  hour ! 

And,  like  a  bride's,  the  Poet  kissed 
The  lips  of  the  glorious  flower. 

Then  the  Nightingale,  who  sat  above 
In  the  boughs  of  the  citron-tree, 

Sang  :  We  are  no  rivals,  brother  mine, 
Except  in  minstrelsy ; 

For  the  rose  you  kissed  with  the  kiss 
of  love, 
She  is  faithful  still  to  me. 

And  further  sang  the  Nightingale  : 
Your  bower  not  distant  lies. 

I  heard  the  sound  of  a  Persian  lute 
From  the  jasmined  window  rise, 

And,  twin-bright  stars,  through  the 
lattice-bars, 
I  saw  the  Sultana's  eyes. 

The  Poet  said :  I  will  here  abide, 
In  the  Sun's  unclouded  door  ; 


THE   TEMPTATION   OF   HASSAN   BEN    KHALED      55 


Here  are  the  wells  of  all  delight 
On  the  lost  Arcadian  shore  : 

Here  is  the  light  on  sea  and  land, 
And  the  dream  deceives  no  more. 

Cawnpore,  1853. 


THE  TEMPTATION  OF  HASSAN 
BEN  KHALED 


streets 
Of  Cairo,    sang  these  verses  at  my 

door : 
"  Blessed  is  he,  who  God  and  Prophet 

greets 
Each  morn  with  prayer  ;  but   he   is 

blest  much  more 
"Whose  conduct  is  his  prayer's  inter- 
preter 
Sweeter  than  musk,   and  pleasanter 

than  myrrh, 
Richer  than  rubies,  shall  his  portion 

be, 
"When  God  bids  Azrael,  '  Bring  him 

unto  me ! ' 
But  woe  to  him  whose  life  casts  dirt 

upon 
The  Prophet's  word!    When  all  his 

days  are  done, 
Him  shall  the  Evil    Angel    trample 

down 
Out  of  the  sight  of  God."     Thus,  with 

a  frown 
Of  the  severest  virtue,  Hassan  sang 
Unto    the    people,    till    the   markets 

ransr. 


But  two   days   after  this,   he   came 

again 
And  sang,  and  I  remarked  an  altered 

strain. 
Before  my  shop  he  stood,  with  fore- 
head bent 
Like  one   whose  sin  hath  made  him 

penitent,  — 
In  whom  the  pride,  that  like  a  stately 

reed 
Lifted  his  head,  is  broken.     "Blest 

indeed," 
(These  were  his  words,)  "is  he  who 

never  fell, 
But  blest  much  more,  who  from  the 

verge  of  Hell 


Climbs  up  to  Paradise :   for    Sin  is 

sweet ; 
Strong    is  Temptation  ;    willing  are 

the  feet 
That    follow  Pleasure,   manifold  her 

snares, 
And  pitfalls  lurk  beneath  our  very 

prayers: 
Yet  God,  the  Clement,  the   Compas- 
sionate, 
In  pity  of  our  weakness  keeps  the 

gate 
Of  Pardon  open,  scorning  not  to  wait 
Till  the  last  moment,  when  His  mercy 

flings 
Splendor  from  the  shade  of  Azrael's 

wings." 
"Wherefore,  O  Poet!"  I  to  Hassan 

said, 
"This  altered  measure  ?    Wherefore 

hang  your  head, 

0  Hassan !  whom  the  pride  of  virtue 

gives 
The  right  to  face  the  holiest  man  that 

lives  ? 
Enter,  I  pray  thee:  this  poor  house 

will  be 
Honored  henceforth,  if  it  may  shelter 

thee." 
Hassan    Ben    Khaled    lifted    up    his 

eyes 
To  mine,  a  moment :  then,  in  cheerful 

guise, 
He  passed  my  threshold  with  unslip- 

pered  feet. 

in 

1  led  him  from  the  noises  of  the  street 
To  the  cool  inner  chambers,  where  my 

slave 
Poured  out  the  pitcher's  rosy-scented 

wave 
Over  his  hands,   and  laid    upon  his 

knee 
The  napkin,  silver-fringed :  and  when 

the  pipe 
Exhaled  a  grateful  odor  from  the  ripe 
Latakian  leaves,  said  Hassan  unto  me  : 
"Listen,  O  Man!  no  man  can  truly 

say 
That  he  hath  wisdom.     What  I  sang 

to-day 
Was  not  less  truth  than  what  I  sang 

before, 
But  to  Truth's  house  there  is  a  single 

door, 


56 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


Which  is  Experience.  He  teaches  best, 

Who  feels  the  hearts  of  all  men  in  his 
breast, 

And  knows  their  strength  or  weakness 
through  his  own. 

The  holy  pride,  that  never  was  o'er- 
thrown, 

Was  never  tempted,  and  its  words  of 
blame 

Reach  but  the  dull  ears  of  the  multi- 
tude : 

The  admonitions,  fruitful  unto  good, 

Come  from  the  voice  of  him  who  con- 
quers shame." 

IV 

"  Give  me,  OPoet!  (if  thy  friend  may 
be 

Worthy  such  confidence,)  "  I  said, 
' '  the  key 

Unto  thy  words,  that  I  may  share  with 
thee 

Thine  added  wisdom."  Hassan's 
kindly  eye 

Before  his  lips  unclosed,  spake  will- 
ingly, 

And  he  began  :  "But  two  days  since, 
I  went 

Singing  what  thou  didst  hear,  with 
soul  intent 

On  my  own  virtue,  all  the  markets 
through ; 

And  when  about  the  time  of  prayer,  I 
drew 

Near  the  Gate  of  Victory,  behold  ! 

There  came  a  man,  whose  turban 
fringed  with  gold 

And  golden  cimeter,  bespake  his 
wealth: 

'  May  God  prolong  thy  days,  O  Has- 
san !     Health 

And  Fortune  be  thy  wisdom's  aids ! ' 
he  cried  ; 

'  Come  to  my  garden  by  the  river's  side, 

Where  other  poets  wait  thee.  Be  my 
guest, 

For  even  the  Prophets  had  their  times 
of  rest, 

And  Rest,  that  strengthens  unto  virtu- 
ous deeds, 

Is  one  with  Prayer.'  Two  royal- 
blooded  steeds, 

Held  by  his  grooms,  were  waiting  at 
the  gate, 

And  though  I  shrank  from  such  un- 
wonted state 


The  master's  words  were  manna  to  my 

pride, 
And,  mounting  straightway,  forth  we 

twain  did  ride 
Unto  the  garden  by  the  river's  side. 


"Never  till  then  had  I  beheld  such 

bloom. 
The  west-wind  sent  its  heralds  of  per- 
fume 
To  bid  us  welcome,  midway  on  the 

road. 
Full  in  the  sun  the  marble    portal 

glowed 
Like   silver,   but  within  the    garden 

wall 
No  ray  of  sunshine  found  a  place  to 

fall, 
So  thick  the  crowning  foliage  of  the 

trees, 
Roofing  the  walks  with  twilight ;  and 

the  air 
Under  their  tops  was  greener  than  the 

seas, 
And  cool  as  they.     The  forms  that 

wandered  there 
Resembled    those   who  populate  the 

floor 
Of  Ocean,  and  the  royal  lineage  own 
That  gave  a  Princess  unto  Persia's 

throne. 
All  fruits  the  trees  of  this  fair  garden 

bore, 
Whose   balmy    fragrance    lured    the 

tongue  to  taste 
Their  flavors  :  there  bananas  flung  to 

waste 
Their  golden  flagons  with  thick  honey 

filled ; 
From  splintered  cups  the  ripe  pome- 
granates spilled 
A  shower  of  rubies ;  oranges  that  glow 
Like  globes  of  fire,  enclosed  a  heart  of 

snow 
Which  thawed  not  in  their  flame  ;  like 

balls  of  gold 
The  peaches  seemed,  that  had  in  blood 

been  rolled ; 
Pure  saffron  mixed  with  clearest  am- 
ber stained 
The  apricots  ;  bunches  of  amethyst 
And  sapphire  seemed  the  grapes,   so 

newly  kissed 
That  still  the  mist  of  Beauty's  breath 

remained : 


THE   TEMPTATION    OF    HASSAN    BEN    KHALED      57 


And  where  the  lotus  slowly  swung  in 

air 
Her    snowy-bosomed    chalice,    rosy- 
veined, 
The  golden  fruit  swung  softly-cradled 

there, 
Even  as  a  bell  upon  the  bosom  swings 
Of  some  fair  dancer,  —  happy  bell, 

that  sings 
For  joy,  its  golden  tinkle  keeping  time 
To  the  heart's  beating  and  the  cymbal's 

chime! 
There  dates  of  agate  and  of    jasper 

lay, 
Dropped  from  the  bounty  of  the  preg- 
nant palm, 
And  all  ambrosial  trees,  all  fruits  of 

balm, 
All  flowers  of  precious  odors,  made 

the  day 
Sweet  as  a  morn  of  Paradise.      My 

breath 
Failed  with    the   rapture,   and  with 

doubtful  mind 
I  turned  to  where  the  garden's  lord 

reclined, 
And  asked,  '  "Was  not  that  gate  the 

Gate  of  Death  ? ' 


"The  guests  were  near  a  fountain. 
As  I  came 

They  rose  in  welcome,  wedding  to 
my  name 

Titles  of  honor,  linked  in  choicest 
phrase, 

For  Poets'  ears  are  ever  quick  to 
Praise, 

The  '  Open  Sesame ! '  whose  magic  art 

Forces  the  guarded  entrance  of  the 
heart. 

Young  men  were  they,  whose  manly 
beauty  made 

Their  words  the  sweeter,  and  their 
speech  displayed 

Knowledge  of  men,  and  of  the  Pro- 
phet's laws. 

Pleasant  our  converse  was,  where 
every  pause 

Gave  to  the  fountain  leave  to  sing  its 
song, 

Suggesting  further  speech ;  until,  ere- 
long, 

There  came  a  troop  of  swarthy  slaves, 
who  bore 

Ewers  and  pitchers  all  of  silver  ore, 


Wherein  we  washed  our  hands  ;  then, 
tables  placed, 

And  brought  us  meats  of  every  sump- 
tuous taste 

That  makes  the  blood  rich,  —  phea- 
sants stuffed  with  spice ; 

Young  lambs,  whose  entrails  were  of 
cloves  and  rice  ; 

Ducks  bursting  with  pistachio  nuts, 
and  fish 

That  in  a  bed  of  parsley  swam.  Each 
dish, 

Cooked  with  such  art,  seemed  better 
than  the  last, 

And  our  indulgence  in  the  rich  repast 

Brought  on  the  darkness  ere  we  missed 
the  day : 

But  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  foun- 
tain's spray, 

Or,  pendent  from  the  boughs,  their 
colors  told 

What  fruits  unseen,  of  crimson  or  of 
gold, 

Scented  the  gloom.  Then  took  the 
generous  host 

A  basket  filled  with  roses.  Every 
guest 

Cried,  '  Give  me  roses ! '  and  he  thus 
addressed 

His  words  to  all :  '  He  who  exalts 
them  most 

In  song,  he  only  shall  the  roses  wear.' 

Then  sang  a  guest  :  '  The  rose's 
cheeks  are  fair ; 

It  crowns  the  purple  bowl,  and  no 
one  knows 

If  the  rose  colors  it,  or  it  the  rose.' 

And  sang  another  :  '  Crimson  is  its 
hue, 

And  on  its  breast  the  morning's  crys- 
tal dew 

Is  changed  to  rubies.'  Then  a  third 
replied  : 

'  It  blushes  in  the  sun's  enamored  sight, 

As  a  young  virgin  on  her  wedding- 
night, 

When  from  her  face  the  bridegroom 
lifts  the  veil.' 

When  all  had  sung  their  songs,  I, 
Hassan,  tried. 

'The  Rose,'  I  sang,  'is  either  red  or 
pale, 

Like  maidens  whom  the  flame  of  pas- 
sion burns, 

And  Love  or  Jealousy  controls,  by 
turns. 


53 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


Its    buds    are    lips    preparing  for  a 

kiss; 
Its  open  flowers  are  like  the  blush  of 

bliss 
On    lovers'    cheeks ;    the    thorns    its 

armor  are, 
And  in  its  centre  shines    a    golden 

star, 
As  on  a    favorite's  cheek  a  sequin 

glows  — 
And  thus  the  garden's  favorite  is  the 

Rose.' 

VII 

"  The  master  from  his  open  basket 

shook 
The  roses  on  my  head.     The  others 

took 
Their  silver  cups,   and  rilling  them 

with  wine, 
Cried,   'Pledge  our  singing,  Hassan, 

as  we  thine  ! ' 
But  I  exclaimed,  '  What  is  it  I  have 

heard  ? 
Wine  is  forbidden  by  the  Prophet's 

word : 
Surely,    O    Friends!    ye    would    not 

lightly  break 
The  laws  which  bring  ye  blessing  ? ' 

Then  they  spake : 
1  O  Poet,  learn  thou  that  the  law  was 

made 
For  men,  and  not  for  poets.     Turn 

thine  eye 
Within,    and  read    the  nature  there 

displayed  ; 
The  gifts  thou  hast  doth  Allah's  grace 

deny 
To  common  men  ;  they  lift  thee  o'er 

the  rules 
The  Prophet  fixed  for  sinners  and  for 

fools. 
The  vine  is  Nature's  poet:  from  his 

bloom 
The  air  goes  reeling,  tipsy  with  per- 
fume, 
And  when  the  sun  is  warm  within  his 

blood 
It  mounts  and  sparkles  in  a  crimson 

flood; 
Rich  with  dumb  songs  he  speaks  not, 

till  they  find 
Interpretation  in  the  Poet's  mind. 
If  Wine  be  evil,  Song  is  evil  too  ; 
Then  cease  thy  singing,  lest  it  bring 

thee  sin  ; 


But  wouldst  thou  know  the  strains 
which  Hafiz  knew, 

Drink  as  he  drank,  and  thus  the  secret 
win.' 

They  clasped  my  glowing  hands ; 
they  held  the  bowl 

Up  to  my  lips,  till,  losing  all  control 

Of  the  fierce  thirst,  which  at  my  scru- 
ples laughed, 

I  drained  the  goblet  at  a  single 
draught. 

It  ran  through  every  limb  like  fluid 
fire: 

'  More,  O  my  Friends  ! '  I  cried,  the 
new  desire 

Raging  within  me  :  '  this  is  life  in- 
deed ! 

From  blood  like  this  is  coined  the 
nobler  seed 

Whence  poets  are  begotten.  Drink 
again,       f 

And  give  us  music  of  a  tender  strain, 

Linking  your  inspiration  unto  mine, 

For  music  hovers  on  the  lips  of  Wine  ! ' 


' ' '  Music  ! '  they  shouted,  echoing  my 
demand, 

And  answered  with  a  beckon  of  his 
hand 

The  gracious  host,  whereat  a  maiden, 
fair 

As  the  last  star  that  leaves  the  morn- 
ing air, 

Came  down  the  leafy  paths.  Her 
veil  revealed 

The  beauty  of  her  face,  which,  half 
concealed 

Behind  its  thin  blue  folds,  showed 
like  the  moon 

Behind  a  cloud  that  will  forsake  it 
soon. 

Her  hair  was  braided  darkness,  but 
the  glance 

Of  lightning  eyes  shot  from  her  coun- 
tenance, 

And  showed  her  neck,  that  like  an 
ivory  tower 

Rose  o'er  the  twin  domes  of  her  mar- 
ble breast. 

Were  all  the  beauty  of  this  age  com- 
pressed 

Into  one  form,  she  would  transcend 
its  power. 

Her  step  was  lighter  than  the  young 
gazelle's, 


THE   TEMPTATION   OF   HASSAN    BEN   KHALED 


59 


And  as  she  walked,  her  anklet's  golden 

hells 
Tinkled     with     pleasure,    but    were 

quickly  mute 
With  jealousy,  as  from  a  case  she 

drew 
With  snowy  hands  the  pieces  of  her 

lute, 
And  took  her  seat  before  me.     As  it 

grew 
To  perfect  shape,  her  lovely  arms  she 

bent 
Around  the  neck  of  the  sweet  instru- 
ment, 
Till  from  her  soft  caresses  it  awoke 
To  consciousness,  and  thus  its  rapture 

spoke : 
'  I  was  a  tree  within  an  Indian  vale, 
When  first  I  heard  the  love-sick  night- 
ingale 
Declare  his  passion:  every  leaf  was 

stirred 
With  the  melodious  sorrow  of  the  bird, 
And  when  he  ceased,   the  song    re- 
mained with  me. 
Men  came  anon,  and  felled  the  harm- 
less tree, 
But  from  the  memory  of  the  songs  I 

heard, 
The  spoiler  saved  me  from  the  destiny 
Whereby  my  brethren  perished.     O'er 

the  sea 
I  came,  and  from  its  loud,  tumultuous 

moan 
I  caught  a  soft  and  solemn  undertone ; 
And  when  I  grew  beneath  the  maker's 

hand 
To  what  thou  seest,  he  sang  (the  while 

he  planned) 
The  mirthful  measures  of  a  careless 

heart, 
And  of  my   soul  his  songs  became  a 

part. 
Now  they  have  laid  my  head  upon  a 

breast 
Whiter  than  marble,  I  am  wholly  blest. 
The  fair  hands  smite  me,    and   my 

strings  complain 
With  such  melodious  cries,  they  smite 

again, 
Until,  with  passion  and  with  sorrow 

swayed, 
My  torment  moves  the  bosom  of  the 

maid, 
Who  hears  it  speak  her  own.     I  am 

the  voice 


Whereby  the  lovers  languish  or  re- 
joice ; 

And  they  caress  me,  knowing  that  my 
strain 

Alone  can  speak  the  language  of  their 
pain.' 


' '  Here  ceased  the  fingers  of  the  maid 

to  stray 
Over  the  strings  ;  the  sweet  song  died 

away 
In  mellow,  drowsy  murmurs,  and  the 

lute 
Leaned  on  her  fairest  bosom,  and  was 

mute. 
Better  than  wine  that  music  was  to 

me  : 
Not  the  lute  only  felt  her  hands,  but 

she 
Played  on  my  heart-strings,  till  the 

sounds  became 
Incarnate  in  the  pulses  of  my  frame. 
Speech  left  my  tongue,   and  in  my 

tears  alone 
Found    utterance.      With    stretched 

arms  I  implored 
Continuance,    whereat     her     fingers 

poured 
A  tenderer  music,  answering  the  tone 
Her  parted  lips  released,  the  while  her 

throat 
Throbbed,  as  a  heavenly  bird  were 

fluttering  there, 
And  gave  her  voice  the  wonder  of  his 

note. 
'  His  brow,'  she  sang,  '  is  white  beneath 

his  hair ; 
The  fertile  beard  is  soft  upon  his  chin, 
Shading  the  mouth  that  nestles  warm 

within, 
As  a  rose  nestles  in  its  leaves ;  I  see 
His  eyes,  but  cannot  tell  what  hue 

they  be, 
For  the  sharp  eyelash,  like  a  sabre, 

speaks 
The  martial  law  of  Passion  ;  in  his 

cheeks 
The  quick  blood  mounts,  and  then  as 

quickly  goes, 
Leaving  a  tint  like  marble  when  a 

rose 
Is  held  inside  it :  —  bid  him  veil  his 

eyes, 
Lest  all  my  soul  should  unto  mine 

arise, 


6o 


POEMS   OF  THE   ORIENT 


And  he  behold  it ! '    As  she  sang,  her 

glance 
Dwelt  on  my  face  ;  her  beauty,  like  a 

lance, 
Transfixed  my  heart.     I  melted  into 

sighs, 
Slain  by  the  arrows  of  her  beauteous 

eyes. 
'  Why  is  her  bosom  made '  (I  cried) '  a 

snare  ? 
Why  does  a  single    ringlet    of    her 

haii- 
Hold  my    heart    captive  ? '     '  Would 

you  know  ? '  she  said  ; 
'  It  is  that  you  are  mad  with  love,  and 

chains 
Were  made  for  madmen.'    Then  she 

raised  her  head 
With  answering  love,  that  led  to  other 

strains, 
Until  the  lute,  which  shared  with  her 

the  smart, 
Rocked  as  in  storm  upon  her  beating 

heart. 
Thus  to  its  wires  she  made  impas- 
sioned cries : 
'  I  swear  it  by  the  brightness  of  his 

eyes, 
I  swear  it  by  the  darkness    of    his 

hair ; 
By  the  warm  bloom  his  limbs  and 

bosom  wear ; 
By  the  fresh  pearls  his  rosy  lips  en- 
close ; 
By  the  calm  majesty  of  his  repose  ; 
By  smiles  I  coveted,  and  frowns  I 

feared, 
And  by  the  shooting  myrtles  of  his 

beard, — 
I  swear  it,  that  from  him  the  morning 

drew 
Its  freshness,  and  the  moon  her  silvery 

hue, 
The  sun  his  brightness,  and  the  stars 

their  fire, 
And  musk  and  camphor  all  their  odor- 
ous breath  : 
And  if  he  answer  not  my  love's  desire, 
Day  will  be  night  to  me,  and  Life  be 

Death!' 


"Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when,  over- 
come, I  fell 

Upon  her  bosom,  where  the  lute  no 
more 


That  night  was  cradled ;  song  was  si- 
lenced well 
With  kisses,  each  one  sweeter  than 

before, 
Until  their  fiery  dew  so    long    was 

quaffed, 
I  drank   delirium    in  the  infectious 

draught. 
The  guests  departed,  but  the  sounds 

they  made 
I  heard  not ;  in  the  fountain-haunted 

shade 
The  lamps  burned  out;  the  moon  rode 

far  above, 
But  the  trees  chased  her  from  our  nest 

of  love. 
Dizzy  with  passion,  in  mine  ears  the 

blood 
Tingled  and  hummed  in  a  tumultuous 

flood, 
Until  from  deep  to  deep  I  seemed  to 

fall, 
Like   him,  who  from  El  Sirat's  hair- 
drawn  wall 
Plunges  to  endless  gulfs.     In  broken 

gleams 
Glimmered  the  things  I  saw,  so  mixed 

with  dreams 
The    vain    confusion    blinded    every 

sense, 
And  knowledge    left    me.     Then    a 

sleep  intense 
Fell  on  my  brain,  and  held  me  as  the 

dead, 
Until  a  sudden  tumult  smote  my  head, 
And  a  strong  glare,  as  when  a  torch 

is  hurled 
Before  a  sleeper's  eyes,  brought  back 

the  world. 

XI 

"Most  wonderful !    The  fountain  and 

the  trees 
Had  disappeared,  and  in  the  place  of 

these 
I  saw  the  well-known  Gate  of  Victory. 
The  sun  was  high  ;  the  people  looked 

at  me, 
And  marvelled  that  a  sleeper  should 

be  there 
On  the  hot  pavement,  for  the  second 

prayer 
Was  called  from  all  the  minarets.     I 

passed 
My  hand  across  my  eyes,  and  found  at 

last 


EL   KHALIL 


61 


What  man  I  was.  Then  straightway- 
through  my  heart 

There  rang  a  double  pang,  —  the  bitter 
smart 

Of  evil  knowledge,  and  the  unhealthy- 
lust 

Of  sinful  pleasure ;  and  I  threw  the 
dust 

Upon  my  head,  the  burial  of  my 
pride,  — 

The  ashen  soil,  wherein  I  plant  the 
tree 

Of  Penitence.  The  people  saw,  and 
cried, 

1  May  God  reward  thee,  Hassan ! 
Truly,  thou, 

Whom  men  have  honored,  addest  to 
thy  brow 

The  crowning  lustre  of  Humility : 

As  thou  abasest,  God  exalteth  thee  ! ' 

Which  when  I  heard,  I  shed  such 
tears  of  shame 

As  might  erase  the  record  of  my 
blame, 

And  from  that  time  I  have  not  dared 
to  curse 

The  unrighteous,  since  the  man  who 
seemeth  worse 

Than  I,  may  purer  be  ;  for,  when  I 
fell 

Temptation  reached  a  loftier  pinnacle. 

Therefore,  O  Man  !  be  Charity  thy 
aim: 

Praise  cannot  harm,  but  weigh  thy 
words  of  blame. 

Distrust  the  Virtue  that  itself  exalts, 

But  turn  to  that  which  doth  avow  its 
faults, 

And  from  Repentance  plucks  a  whole- 
some fruit. 

Pardon,  not  Wrath,  is  God's  best  at- 
tribute." 

XII 

"The  tale,  O  Poet!   which  thy  lips 

have  told," 
I  said,    "is  words  of    rubies  set  in 

gold. 
Precious  the  wisdom  which  from  evil 

draws 
Strength  to  fulfil  the  good,  of  Allah's 

laws. 
But  lift  thy  head,  O  Hassan  !    Thine 

own  words 
Shall  best  console  thee,  for  my  tongue 

affords 


No  phrase  but  thanks  for  what  thou 
hast  bestowed  ; 

And  yet  I  fain  would  have  thee  shake 
the  load 

Of  shame  from  off  thy  shoulders,  see- 
ing still 

That  by  this  fall  thou  hast  increased 
thy  will 

To  do  the  work  which  makes  thee 
truly  blest." 

Hassan  Ben  Khaled  wept  and  smote 

Ills  V)T*P£i '•Vf"  * 

"Hold!    hold,    6  Man!"  he  cried: 

"  why  make  me  feel 
A  deeper  shame  ?    Why  force  me  to 

reveal 
That  Sin  is  as  the  leprous  taint  no  art 
Can  cleanse  the  blood  from  ?    In  my 

secret  heart 
I  do  believe  I  hold  at  dearer  cost 
The  vanished  Pleasure,  than  the  Vir- 
tue lost." 

So  saying,  he  arose  and  went  his  way  ; 
And  Allah  grant  he  go  no  more  astray. 

1854. 


EL  KHALIL 

I  am  no  chieftain,  fit  to  lead 

Where  spears  are  hurled  and  warriors 

bleed ; 
No  poet,  in  my  chanted  rhyme 
To  rouse  the  ghosts  of  ancient  time  ; 
No  magian,  with  a  subtle  ken 
To  rule  the  thoughts  of  other  men ; 
Yet  far  as  sounds  the  Arab  tongue 
My  name  is  known  to  old  and  young. 

My  form  has  lost  its  pliant  grace, 
There  is  no  beauty  in  my  face, 
There  is  no  cunning  in  my  arm, 
The  Children  of  the  Sun  to  charm ; 
Yet,  where  I  go,  my  people's  eyes 
Are  lighted  with  a  glad  surprise, 
And  in  each  tent  a  couch  is  free, 
And  by  each  fire  a  place,  for  me. 

They  watch  me  from  the  palms,  and 

some 
Proclaim  my  coming  ere  I  come. 
The  children  lift  my  hanjl  to  meet 
The  homage  of  their  kisses  sweet ; 
With  manly  warmth  the  men  embrace, 
The  veiled  maidens  seek  my  face, 


62 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


And  eyes,  fresh  kindled  from  the  heart 
Keep  loving  watch  when  I  depart. 

On  God,  the  Merciful,  I  call, 
To  shed  His  blessing  over  all : 
I  praise  His  name,  for  He  is  Great, 
And  Loving,  and  Compassionate  ; 
And  for  the  gift  of  love  I  give  — 
The  breath  of  life  whereby  I  live  — 
He  gives  me  back,  in  overflow, 
His  children's  love,  where'er  I  go. 

Deep  sunk  in  sin  the  man  must  be 
That  has  no  friendly  word  for  me. 
I  pass  through  tribes  whose  trade  is 

death, 
And  not  a  sabre  quits  the  sheath  ; 
For  strong,  and  cruel  as  they  prove, 
The  sons  of  men  are  weak  to  Love. 
The  humblest  gifts  to  them  I  bring ; 
Yet  in  their  hearts  I  rule,  a  king. 

1853. 

SONG 

Daughter  of  Egypt,  veil  thine  eyes! 

I  cannot  bear  their  fire  ; 
Nor  will  I  touch  with  sacrifice 

Those  altars  of  Desire. 
For  they  are  flames  that  shun  the  day, 

And  their  unholy  light 
Is  fed  from  natures  gone  astray 

In  passion  and  in  night. 

The  stars  of  Beauty  and  of  Sin, 

They  burn  amid  the  dark, 
Like  beacons  that  to  ruin  win 

The  fascinated  bark. 
Then  veil  their  glow,  lest  I  forswear 

The  hopes  thou  canst  not  crown, 
And  in  the  black  waves  of  thy  hair 

My  struggling  manhood  drown  ! 

1853. 

AMRAN'S  WOOING 


You  ask,  O  Frank !  how  Love  is  born 
Within  these  glowing  climes  of  Morn, 
Where     envious     veils    conceal     the 

charms 
That  tempt  a  Western  lover's  arms, 
And  how,  without  a  voice  or  sound, 
From  heart  to  heart  the  path  is  found, 
Sjnce  on  the  eye  alone  is  flung 
The  burden  of  the  silent  tongue. 


You  hearken  with  a  doubtful  smile 
Whene'er  the  wandering  bards  beguile 
Our  evening  indolence  with  strains 
Whose   words  gush  molten  through 

our  veins,  — 
The  songs  of  Love,  but  half  confessed, 
Where     Passion     sobs    on    Sorrow's 

breast, 
And  mighty  longings,  tender  fears, 
Steep  the  strong    heart  in  fire  and 

tears. 
The  source  of  each  accordant  strain 
Lies  deeper  than  the  Poet's  brain. 
First  from  the  people's  heart  must 

spring 
The  passions  which  he  learns  to  sing ; 
They  are  the  wind,  the  harp  is  he, 
To  voice  their  fitful  melody,  — 
The  language  of  their  varying  fate, 
Their    pride,   grief,    love,    ambition, 

hate,  — 
The  talisman  which  holds  inwrought 
The    touchstone     of     the    listener's 

thought ; 
That  penetrates  each  vain  disguise, 
And  brings  his  secret  to  his  eyes. 
For,  like  a  solitary  bird 
That  hides  among    the  boughs  un- 
heard 
Until  some  mate,  whose  carol  breaks, 
Its  own  betraying  song  awakes, 
So,  to  its  echo  in  those  lays, 
The  ardent  heart  itself  betrays. 
Crowned    with    a    prophet's    honor, 

stands 
The  Poet,  on  Arabian  sands  ; 
A    chief,    whose    subjects    love    his 

thrall,  — 
The  sympathizing  heart  of  all. 

ii 

Vaunt  not  your  Western  maids  to  me, 
Whose  charms  to  every  gaze  are  free  : 
My  love  is  selfish,  and  would  share 
Scarce  with  the  sun,  or  general  air, 
The  sight  of  beauty  which  has  shone 
Once  for  mine  eyes,  and  mine  alone. 
Love  likes  concealment  ;  he  can  dress 
With  fancied  grace  the  loveliness 
That  shrinks  behind  its  virgin  veil, 
As  hides  the  moon  her  forehead  pale 
Behind  a  cloud,  yet  leaves  the  air 
Softer  than  if  her  orb  were  there. 
And  as  the  splendor  of  a  star, 
When  sole  in  heaven,  seems  brighter 
far 


AMRAN'S   WOOING 


63 


So  shines  the  eye,   Love's  star  and 

sun, 
The  brighter,  that  it  shines  alone. 
The  light  from  out  its  darkness  sent 
Is  Passion's  life  and  element ; 
And  when    the    heart  is  warm  and 

young, 
Let  but  that  single  ray  be  flung 
Upon  its  surface,  and  the  deep 
Heaves  from  its  unsuspecting  sleep, 
As  heaves  the  ocean  when  its  floor 
Breaks  over  the  volcano's  core. 
Who  thinks  if  cheek  or  lip  be  fair  ? 
Is  not  all  beauty  centred  where 
The  soul  looks  out,  the  feelings  move, 
And  Love  his  answer  gives  to  love  ? 
Look  on  the  sun,  and  you  will  find 
For  other  sights  your  eyes  are  blind. 
Look  —  if  the  colder  blood  you  share 
Can  give  your  heart  the  strength  to 

dare  — 
In  eyes  of  dark  and  tender  fire : 
What  more  can  blinded  love  desire  ? 


I  was  a  stripling,  quick  and  bold, 
And  rich  in  pride  as  poor  in  gold, 
AYhen  God's  good  will  my  journey 

bent 
One  day  to  Shekh  Abdallah's  tent. 
My  only  treasure  was  a  steed 
Of  Araby's  most  precious  breed  ; 
And  whether  't  was  in  boastful  whim 
To  show  his  mettled  speed  of  limb, 
Or  that  presumption,  which,  in  sooth, 
Becomes  the  careless  brow  of  youth,  — 
Which  takes  the  world  as  birds  the 

air, 
And  moves  in  freedom  everywhere,  — 
It  matters  not.     But  'midst  the  tents 
I  rode  in  easy  confidence, 
Till  to  Abdallah's  door  I  pressed 
And  made  myself  the  old  man's  guest. 
My    "Peace*  be  with  you!  "was  re- 
turned 
With  the  grave  courtesy  he  learned 
From  age  and  long  authority, 
And  in  God's  name  he  welcomed  me. 
The  pipe  replenished,  with  its  stem 
Of  jasmine  wood  and  amber  gem, 
Was  at  my  lips,  and  while  I  drew 
The  rosy-sweet,  soft  vapor  through 
In  ringlets  of  dissolving  blue, 
Waiting  his  speech    with  reverence 

meet, 
A  woman's  garments  brushed  my  feet, 


And  first  through  boyish  senses  ran 
The  pulse  of  love  which  made  me  man. 
The  handmaid  of  her  father's  cheer, 
With  timid  grace  she  glided  near,   . 
And,  lightly  dropping  on  her  knee, 
Held  out  a  silver  zerf  to  me, 
Within  whose  cup  the  fragrance  sent 
From  Yemen's  sunburnt  berries  blent 
With  odors  of  the  Persian  rose. 
That  picture  still  in  memory  glows 
With  the  same  heat  as  then,  — the 

gush 
Of  fever,  with  its  fiery  flush 
Startling  my  blood ;  and  I  can  see  — 
As  she  this  moment  knelt  to  me  — 
The  shrouded  graces  of  her  form ; 
The    half-seen    arm,    so    round    and 

warm; 
The  little  hand,  whose  tender  veins 
Branched  through  the  henna's  orange 

stains ; 
The  head,  in  act  of  offering  bent ; 
And  through  the  parted  veil,  which 

lent 
A  charm  for  what  it  hid,  the  eye, 
Gazelle-like,  large,  and  dark,  and  shy, 
That  with  a  soft,  sweet  tremble  shone 
Beneath  the  fervor  of  my  own, 
Yet  could  not,  would  not,  turn  away 
The  fascination  of  its  ray, 
But  half  in  pleasure,  half  in  fright, 
Grew  unto  mine,  and  builded  bright 
From  heart  to  heart  a  bridge  of  light. 


From  the  fond  trouble  of  my  look 
The  zerf  within  her  fingers  shook, 
As  with  a  start,  like  one  who  breaks 
Some  happy  trance  of  thought,  and 

wakes 
Unto  forgotten  toil,  she  rose 
And  passed.     I  saw  the  curtains  close 
Behind  her  steps  :  the  light  was  gone, 
But  in  the  dark  my  heart  dreamed  on. 
Some  random  words  —  thanks  ill  ex- 
pressed — 
I  to  the  stately  Shekh  addressed, 
With  the  intelligence  which  he, 
My  host,  could  not  demand  of  me ; 
How,  wandering  in  the  desert  chase, 
I  spied  from  far  his  camping-place, 
And  Arab  honor  bade  me  halt 
To  break  his  bread  and  share  his  salt. 
Thereto,  fit  reverence  for  his  name, 
The   praise  our  speech  is  quick    to 
frame, 


64 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


Which,   empty  though  it  seem,  was 

dear     ■ 
To  the  old  warrior's  willing  ear, 
And  led  his  thoughts,    by  many    a 

track, 
To  deeds  of  ancient  prowess  back, 
Until  my  love  could  safely  hide 
Beneath  the  covert  of  his  pride. 
And  when  his  "Go  with  God!"  was 

said, 
Upon  El-Azrek's  back  I  sped 
Into  the  desert,  wide  and  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
ADd,  fierce  with  passion,  without  heed 
Urged  o'er    the  sands    my    snorting 

steed 
As  if  those  afrites,  feared  of  man,  — 
Who  watch  the  lonely  caravan, 
And,  if  a  loiterer  lags  behind, 
Efface  its  tracks  with  sudden  wind, 
Then  fill  the  air  with  cheating  cries, 
And  make  false  pictures  to  his  eyes 
Till  the  bewildered  sufferer  dies,  — 
Had  breathed  on  me  their  demon  breath 
And  spurred  me  to  the  hunt  of  Death. 


Yet  madness  such  as  this  was  worth 
All  the  cool  wisdom  of  the  earth, 
And  sweeter  glowed  its  wild  unrest 
Than  the  old  calm  of  brain  and  breast. 
The  image  of  that  maiden  beamed 
Through  all  I  saw,  or  thought,    or 

dreamed, 
Till  she  became,  like  Light  or  Air, 
A  part  of  life.     And  she  shall  share, 
I  vowed,  my  passion  and  my  fate, 
Or  both  shall  fail  me,  soon  or  late, 
In  the  vain  effort  to  possess  ; 
For  Life  lives  only  in  success. 
I  could  not,  in  her  father's  sight, 
Purchase  the  hand  which  was  his  right, 
And  well  I  knew  how  quick  denied 
The  prayer  would  be  to  empty  pride  ; 
But  Heaven  and  Earth  shall  sooner 

move 
Than  bar  the  energy  of  Love. 
The  sinews  of  my  life  became 
Obedient  to  that  single  aim, 
And    desperate     deed    and     patient 

thought 
Together  in  its  service  wrought. 
Keen  as  a  falcon,  when  his  eye 
In  search  of  quarry  reads  the  sky, 
I  stole  unseen,  at  eventide, 
Behind  the  well,  upon  whose  side 


The  girls  their  jars  of  water  leaned. 
By  one  long,  sandy  hillock  screened, 
I  watched  the  forms  that  went  and 

came, 
With  eyes    that    sparkled  with   the 

flame 
Up  from  my  heart  in  flashes  sent, 
As  one  by  one  they  came  and  went 
Amid  the  sunset  radiance  cast 
On  the    red    sands:  they  came  and 


And  she,  —  thank  God  !  —  she  came  at 
last! 

VI 

Then,  while  her  fair  companion  bound 
The  cord  her  pitcher's  throat  around, 
And  steadied  with  a  careful  hand 
Its  slow  descent,  upon  the  sand 
At  the  Shekh's  daughter's  feet,  I  sped 
A  slender  arrow,  shaft  and  head 
With    breathing  jasmine-flowers  en- 
twined, 
And  roses  such  as  on  the  wind 
Of  evening  with  rich  odors  fan 
The  white  kiosks  of  Ispahan. 
A  moment,  fired  with  love  and  hope, 
I  stayed  upon  the  yellow  slope 
El-Azrek's  hoofs,  to  see  her  raise 
Her  startled  eyes  in  sweet  amaze,  — 
To  see  her  make  the  unconscious  sign 
Which  recognized  the  gift  as  mine, 
And  place,  before  she  turned  to  part, 
The  flowery  barb  against  her  heart. 


Again  the  Shekh's  divan  I  pressed : 
The  jasmine  pipe  was  brought  the 

guest, 
And  Mariam,  lovelier  than  before, 
Knelt  with  the  steamy  cup  once  more. 
O  bliss !  within  those  eyes  to  see 
A  soul  of  love  look  out  on  me,  — 
A  fount  of  passion,  which  is  truth 
In  the  wild  dialect  of  Youth,  — 
Whose  rich  abundance  is  outpoured 
Like  worship  at  a  shrine  adored, 
And  on  its  rising  deluge  bears 
The  heart  to  raptures  or  despairs. 
While  from  the   cup  the   zerf  con- 
tained 
The  foamy  amber  juice  I  drained, 
A  rose-bud  in  the  zerf  expressed 
The  sweet  confession  of  her  breast. 
One  glance  of  glad  intelligence 
And  silently  she  glided  thence. 


AMRAN'S   WOOING 


65 


"  O  Shekh!"   I  cried,   as  she  with- 
drew, 
(Short  is  the  speech  where  hearts  are 

true,) 
"Thou  hast  a  daughter  ;  let  me  be 
A  shield  to  her,  a  sword  to  thee  ! " 
Abdallah  turned  his  steady  eye 
Full  on  my  face,  and  made  reply  : 
' '  It  cannot  be.     The  treasure  sent 
By  God  must  not  be  idly  spent. 
Strong  men  there  are,  in  service  tried, 
Who  seek  the  maiden  for  a  bride  ; 
And  shall  I  slight  their  worth  and 

truth 
To  feed  the  passing  flame  of  youth  ? " 


11  No  passing  flame  ! "  my  answer  ran  ; 
"  But  love  which  is  the  life  of  man, 
Warmed  with  his  blood,  fed  by  his 

breath, 
And,  when  it  fails  him,  leaves  but 

Death. 

0  Shekh,  I  hoped  not  thy  consent  ; 
But  having  tasted  in  thy  tent 

An  Arab  welcome,  shared  thy  bread, 

1  come  to  warn  thee  I  shall  wed 

Thy  daughter,  though  her  suitors  be 
As  leaves  upon  the  tamarind-tree. 
Guard  her  as  thou  maj'st  guard,  I 

swear 
No  other  bed  than  mine  shall  wear 
Her  virgin  honors,  and  thy  race 
Through  me  shall  keep  its    ancient 

place. 
Thou'rt  warned,   and    duty  bids  no 

more  ; 
For,  when  I  next  approach  thy  door, 
Her  child  shall  intercessor  be 
To  build  up  peace  'twixt  thee  and  me." 
A  little  flushed  my  boyish  brow  ; 
But  calmly  then  I  spake,  as  now. 
The  Shekh,  with  dignity  that  flung 
Rebuke  on  my  impetuous  tongue, 
Replied:    "The  young  man's  hopes 

are  fair ; 
The  young   man's    blood  would    all 

things  dare. 
But  age  is  wisdom,  and  can  bring 
Confusion  on  the  soaring  wing 
Of  reckless  youth.      Thy  words  are 

just, 
But  needless;  for  I  still  can  trust 
A  father's  jealousy  to  shield 
From  robber  grasp  the  gem  concealed 
Within  his  tent,  till  he  may  yield 


To  fitting  hands  the  precious  store. 
Go,  then,  in  peace  ;  but  come  no  more." 

IX 

My  only  sequin  served  to  bribe 

A  cunning  mother  of  the  tribe 

To  Mariam's  mind  my  plan  to  bring. 

A  feather  of  the  wild  dove's  wing, 

A  lock  of  raven  gloss  and  stain 

Sheared  from  El-Azrek's  flowing  mane 

And  that  pale  flower  whose  fragrant 

cup 
Is  closed  until  the  moon  comes  up,  — 
But  then  a  tenderer  beauty  holds 
Than  any  flower  the  sun  unfolds,  — 
Declared  my  purpose.     Her  reply 
Let  loose  the  winds  of  ecstasy  : 
Two  roses  and  the  moonlight  flower 
Told  the  acceptance,  and  the  hour,  — 
Two  daily  suns  to  waste  their  glow, 
And  then,  at  moonrise,  bliss  —  or  woe. 


El-Azrek  now,  on  whom  alone 
The  burden  of  our  fate  was  thrown, 
Claimed  from  my  hands  a  double  meed 
Of  careful  training  for  the  deed. 
I  gave  him  of  my  choicest  store  — 
No  guest  was  ever  honored  more. 
With  flesh  of  kid,  with  whitest  bread 
And  dates  of  Egypt  was  he  fed  ; 
The  camel's  heavy  udders  gave 
Their  frothy  juice  his  thirst  to  lave: 
A  charger,  groomed  with  better  care, 
The  Sultan  never  rode  to  prayer. 
My  burning  hope,  my  torturing  fear, 
I  breathed  in  his  sagacious  ear ; 
Caressed  him  as  a  brother  might, 
Implored  his  utmost  speed  in  flight, 
Hung  on  his  neck  with  many  a  vow, 
And  kissed  the  white  star  on  his  brow. 
His  large  and  lustrous  eyeball  sent 
A  look  which  made  me  confident, 
As  if  in  me  some  doubt  he  spied, 
And  met  it  with  a  human  pride. 
' '  Enough :  I  trust  thee.    'T  is  the  hour, 
And  I  have  need  of  all  thy  power. 
Without  a  wing,  God  gives  thee  wings, 
And  Fortune  to  thy  forelock  clings." 


The  yellow  moon  was  rising  large 
Above  the  Desert's  dusky  marge, 
And  save  the  jackal's  whining  moan, 
Or  distant  camel's  gurgling  groan, 
And  the  lamenting  monotone 


66 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


Of  winds  that  breathe  their  vain  de- 
sire 
And  on  the  lonely  sands  expire, 
A  silent  charm,  a  breathless  spell, 
Waited  with  me  beside  the  well. 
She  is    not    there,  —  not  yet,  —  but 

soon 
A  white  robe  glimmers  in  the  moon. 
Her  little  footsteps  make  no  sound 
On  the  soft  sand ;  and  with  a  bound, 
Where  terror,  doubt,  and  love  unite 
To  blind  her  heart  to  all  but  flight, 
Trembling,    and    panting,    and    op- 
pressed, 
She  threw  herself  upon  my  breast. 
By  Allah !  like  a  bath  of  flame 
The  seething  blood  tumultuous  came 
From  life's  hot  centre  as  I  drew 
Her  mouth  to  mine  :  our  spirits  grew 
Together  in  one  long,  long  kiss,  — 
One    swooning,   speechless   pulse    of 

bliss, 
That,  throbbing  from  the  heart's  core 

met 
In  the  united  lips.     Oh,  yet 
The  eternal  sweetness  of  that  draught 
Renews    the    thirst    with    which    I 

quaffed 
Love's  virgin  vintage  :  starry  fire 
Leapt  from  the  twilights  of  desire, 
And  in  the  golden  dawn  of  dreams 
The  space  grew  warm  with  radiant 

beams, 
Which  from  that  kiss  streamed  o'er  a 

sea 
Of  rapture,  in  whose  bosom  we 
Sank  down,  and  sank  eternally. 

XII 

Now    nerve     thy    limbs,    El-Azrek! 

Fling 
Thy  head  aloft,  and  like  a  wing 
Spread  on  the  wind  thy  cloudy  mane ! 
The  hunt  is  up :  their  stallions  strain 
The  urgent  shoulders  close  behind, 
And  the  wide  nostril  drinks  the  wind. 
But  thou  art,  too,  of  Nedjid's  breed, 
My  brother  !  and  the  falcon's  speed 
Slant  down  the  storm's  advancing  line 
Would  laggard  be  if  matched  with 

thine. 
Still     leaping      forward,      whistling 

through 
The  moonlight-laden  air,  we  flew ; 
And  from  the  distance,  threateningly, 
Came  the  pursuer's  eager  cry. 


Still  forward,  forward,  stretched  our 

flight 
Through  the  long  hours  of    middle 

night ; 
One  after  one  the  followers  lagged, 
And  even  my  faithful  Azrek  flagged 
Beneath  his  double  burden,  till 
The  streaks  of  dawn  began  to  fill 
The  East,  and  freshening  in  the  race, 
Their  goaded  horses  gained  apace. 
I  drew  my  dagger,  cut  the  girth, 
Tumbled  my  saddle  to  the  earth, 
And  clasped  with  desperate  energies 
My  stallion's  side  with  iron  knees ; 
While  Mariam,  clinging  to  my  breast, 
The  closer  for  that  peril  pressed. 
They  come !  they  come !   Their  shouts 

we  hear, 
Now  faint  and  far,  now  fierce  and  near. 
O  brave  El-Azrek !  on  the  track 
Let  not  one  fainting  sinew  slack, 
Or  know  thine  agony  of  flight 
Endured  in  vain  !     The  purple  light 
Of  breaking  morn  has  come  at  last. 
O  joy !  the  thirty  leagues  are  past; 
And,  gleaming  in  the  sunrise,  see, 
The  white  tents  of  the  Aneyzee! 
The  warriors  of  the  waste,  the  foes 
Of  Shekh  Abdallah's  tribe,  are  those 
Whose  shelter  and  support  I  claim, 
Which  they  bestow  in  Allah's  name ; 
While,  wheeling  back,  the  baffled  few 
No  longer  venture  to  pursue. 

XIII 

And  now,  O  Frank !  if  you  would  see 

How  soft  the  eyes  that  looked  on  me 

Through  Mariam' s  silky  lashes,  scan 

Those  of  my  little  Solyrnan. 

And  should  you  marvel  if  the  child 

His  stately  grandsire  reconciled 

To  that  bold  theft,  when  years  had 

brought 
The  golden  portion  which  he  sought, 
And  what  upon  this  theme  befell, 
The  Shekh  himself  can  better  tell. 
Off  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  1853. 

A  PLEDGE  TO  HAFIZ 

Brim  the  bowls  with  Shiraz  wine ! 
Roses  round  your  temples  twine  ; 
Brim  the  bowls  with  Shiraz  wine,  — 
Hafiz  pledge  we,  Bard  divine ! 
With  the  summer  warmth  that  glows 
In  the  wine  and  on  the  rose, 


THE   GARDEN    OF   IREM 


67 


Blushing,  fervid,  ruby-bright, 
We  shall  pledge  his  name  aright. 

Hafiz,  in  whose  measures  move 
Youth  and  Beauty,  Song  and  Love,  — 
In  his  veins  the  nimble  flood 
TVas  of  wine,  and  not  of  blood. 
All  the  songs  he  sang  or  thought 
In  his  brain  were  never  wrought, 
But  like  rose-leaves  fell  apart 
From  that  bursting  rose,  his  heart. 

Youth  is  morning's  transient  ray ; 

Love  consumes  itself  away  ; 

Time  destroys  what  Beauty  gives ; 

But  in  Song  the  Poet  lives. 

While  we  pledge    him  —  thus  —  and 

thus  — 
He  is  present  here  in  us  ; 
'T  is  his  voice  that  cries,  not  mine  : 
Brim  the  bowls  with  Shiraz  wine ! 

1S52. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  IREM 


Have  you  seen  the  Garden  of  Irem  ? 
No  mortal  knoweth  the  road  thereto. 
Find  me  a  path  in  the  mists  that  gather 
When  the  sunbeams  scatter  the  morn- 
ing dew, 
And  I  will  lead  you  thither. 
Give  me  a  key  to  the  halls  of  the  sun 
When  he  goes  behind  the  purple  sea, 
Or  a  wand  to  open  the  vaults  that  run 
Down  to  the  af  rite -guarded  treasures, 
And  I  will  open  its  doors  to  thee. 
Who  hath  tasted  its  countless  plea- 
sures? 
Who  hath  breathed,  in  its  winds  of 

spice, 
Raptures  deeper  than  Paradise  ? 
Who  hath  trodden  its  ivory  floors, 
Where  the  fount  drops  pearls  from  a 

golden  shell, 
And  heard  the  hinges  of  diamond  doors 
Swing  to  the  music  of  Israfel  ? 
Its  roses  blossom,  its  palms  arise, 
By  the  phantom  stream  that  flows  so  fair 
Under  the  Desert's  burning  skies. 
Can  you  reach  that  flood,    can  you 

drink  its  tide, 
Can  you  swim  its  waves  to  the  farther 

side, 
Your  feet  may  enter  there. 


I  have  seen  the  Garden  of  Irem. 
I  found  it,  but  I  sought  it  not : 
Without  a  path,  without  a  guide, 
I  found  the  enchanted  spot : 
Without  a  key  its  golden  gate  stood 

wide. 
I  was  young,  and  strong,  and  bold, 

and  free 
As  the  milk-white  foal  of  the  Ned 3 idee, 
And  the  blood  in  my  veins  was  like 

sap  of  the  vine, 
That  stirs,  and  mounts,  and  will  not 

stop 
Till  the  breathing  blossoms  that  bring 

the  wine 
Have  drained  its  balm  to  the  last  sweet 

drop. 
Lance  and  barb  were  all  I  knew, 
Till  deep  in  the  Desert  the  spot  I  found, 
Where  the  marvellous  gates  of  Irem 

threw 
Their    splendors    over    an    unknown 

ground. 
Mine  were  the  pearl  and  ivory  floors, 
Mine  the  music  of  diamond  doors, 
Turning  each  on  a  newer  glory  : 
Mine  were  the  roses  whose  bloom  out- 
ran 
The  spring-time  beauty  of  Gulistan, 
And  the  fabulous  flowers  of  Persian 

story. 
Mine  were  the  palms  of  silver  stems, 
And  blazing  emerald  for  diadems; 
The  fretted  arch  and  the  gossamer 

wreath, 
So  light  and  frail  you  feared  to  breathe  ; 
Yet  o'er  them  rested  the  pendent  spars 
Of  domes  bespangled  with  silver  stars, 
And  crusted  gems  of  rare  adorning  : 
And  ever  higher,  like  a  shaft  of  fire, 
The  lessening  links  of  the  golden  spire 
Flamed  in  the  myriad-colored  morning ! 

Like  one  who  lies  on  the  marble  lip 
Of  the  blessed  bath  in  a  tranquil  rest, 
And  stirs  not  even  a  finger's  tip 
Lest  the  beatific  dream  should  slip, 
So  did  I  lie  in  Irem's  breast. 
Sweeter  than  Life  and  stronger  than 

Death 
Was  every  draught  of  that  blissful 

breath ; 
Warmer  than  summer  came  its  glow 
To  the  youthful  heart  in  a  mighty 

flood, 


68 


POEMS    OF   THE   ORIENT 


And  sent  its  bold  and  generous  blood 
To  water  the  world  in  its  onward  flow. 
There,  where  the  Garden  of  Irem  lies, 
Are  the  roots  of  the  Tree  of  Paradise, 
And  happy  are  they  who  sit  below, 
When  into  this  world  of  Strife  and 

Death 
The  blossoms  are  shaken  by  Allah's 
breath. 
Granada,  1852. 


THE  WISDOM  OF  ALI 

AN  ARAB  LEGEND 

The  Prophet  once,  sitting  in  calm  de- 
bate, 
Said  :  "I  am  Wisdom's  fortress ;  but 

the  gate 
Thereof  is  Ali."      Wherefore,    some 

who  heard, 
With      unbelieving     jealousy     were 

stirred  ; 
And,  that  they  might  on  him  confusion 

bring, 
Ten  of  the  boldest  joined  to  prove  the 

thing. 
"Let  us  in  turn  to  Ali  go,"  they  said, 
' '  And  ask  if  Wisdom  should  be  sought 

instead 
Of  earthly  riches  ;  then,  if  he  reply 
To  each  of  us,  in  thought,  accordantly, 
And  yet  to  none,  in  speech  or  phrase, 

the  same, 
His  shall  the  honor  be,  and  ours  the 

shame." 

Now,  when  the  first  his  bold  demand 

did  make, 
These    were    the    words    which    Ali 

straightway  spake :  — 

"Wisdom  is  the  inheritance  of  those 
Whom  Allah  favors  ;   riches,  of  his 
foes." 

Unto  the  second  he  said :     ' '  Thyself 

must  be 
Guard  to  thy  wealth;    but  Wisdom 

guardeth  thee." 

Unto  the  third  :  "By  Wisdom  wealth 

is  won ; 
But  riches  purchased  wisdom  yet  for 

none." 


Unto  the  fourth:    "Thy  goods  the 

thief  may  take  ; 
But  into  Wisdom's  house  he  cannot 

break." 

Unto  the  fifth:  "  Thy  goods  decrease 
the  more 

Thou  giv'st ;  but  use  enlarges  Wis- 
dom's store." 

Unto  the  sixth  :     ' '  Wealth  tempts  to 

evil  ways  ; 
But  the  desire  of  Wisdom  is  God's 

praise." 

Unto  the  seventh :  ' '  Divide  thy  wealth, 

each  part 
Becomes  a  pittance.     Give  with  open 

heart 

' '  Thy  wisdom,  and  each  separate  gift 

shall  be 
All  that  thou  hast,  yet  not  impoverish 

thee." 

Unto    the   eighth:     "Wealth   cannot 

keep  itself ; 
But  Wisdom  is  the  steward  even  of 

pelf." 

Unto  the  ninth :  "The  camels  slowly 
bring 

Thy  goods  ;  but  Wisdom  has  the  swal- 
low's wing." 

And  lastly,  when  the  tenth  did  ques- 
tion make, 

These  were  the  ready  words  which 
Ali  spake :  — 

"Wealth  is  a  darkness  which  the  soul 
should  fear  ; 

But  Wisdom  is  the  lamp  that  makes  it 
clear." 

Crimson  with  shame  the  questioners 

withdrew, 
And  they  declared:  "The  Prophet's 

words  were  true ; 
The   mouth    of    Ali   is   the    golden 

door 
Of  Wisdom." 

When  his  friends  to  Ali  bore 
These  words,    he  smiled    and    said : 

"And  should  they  ask 
The  same  until  my  dying  day,  the  task 


BEDOUIN   SONG 


69 


Were  easy  ;  for  the  stream  from  Wis- 
dom's well, 

Which  God  supplies,  is  inexhausti- 
ble." 

1854. 


AN  ORIENTAL  IDYL 

A  silver  javelin  which  the  hills 
Have   hurled   upon   the   plain   be- 
low, 

The  fleetest  of  the  Pharpar's  rills, 
Beneath  me  shoots  in  flashing  flow. 

I  hear  the  never-ending  laugh 
Of  jostling  waves  'that  come  and 
go, 
And  suck    the    bubbling   pipe,   and 
quaff 
The  sherbet    cooled    in    mountain 
snow. 

The    flecks    of    sunshine   gleam   like 
stars 

Beneath  the  canopy  of  shade  ; 
And  in  the  distant,  dim  bazaars 

I  scarcely  hear  the  hum  of  trade. 

No  evil  fear,  no  dream  forlorn, 
Darkens    my    heaven    of    perfect 
blue  ; 

My  blood  is  tempered  to  the  morn,  — 
My  very  heart  is  steeped  in  dew. 

What  Evil  is  I  cannot  tell  ; 

But  half  I  guess  what  Joy  may  be  ; 
And,  as  a  pearl  within  its  shell, 

The  happy  spirit  sleeps  in  me. 

I  feel  no  more  the  pulse's  strife,  — 
The  tides  of  Passion's  ruddy  sea,  — 

But  live  the  sweet,  unconscious  life 
That  breathes  from  yonder  jasmine 
tree. 

Upon  the  glittering  pageantries 
Of  gay  Damascus'  streets  I  look 

As  idly  as  a  babe  that  sees 
The  painted  pictures  of  a  book. 

Forgotten  now  are  name  and  race ; 

The  Past  is  blotted  from  my  brain ; 
For  Memory  sleeps,  and  will  not 
trace 

The  weary  pages  o'er  again. 


I  only  know  the  morning  shines, 
And  sweet  the  dewy  morning  air ; 

But    does    it    play    with    tendrilled 
vines  ? 
Or  does  it  lightly  lift  my  hair  ? 

Deep-sunken  in  the  charmed  repose, 
This  ignorance  is  bliss  extreme  : 

And  whether  I  be  Man,  or  Rose, 
Oh,   pluck  me  not  from   out    my 
dream ! 

1854. 


BEDOUIN  SONG 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry  : 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee, 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain  ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 
With    the    heat    of    my    burning 
sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  learns  of  the  Judgment 
Booh  unfold  ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

Mozambique  Channel,  1853. 


70  POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 

DESERT  HYMN  TO  THE  SUN 


Under  the  arches  of  the  morning  sky, 
Save  in  one  heart,  there  beats  no 
life  of  Man ; 
The  yellow  sand-hills  bleak  and  track- 
less lie, 
And  far  behind  them  sleeps  the  cara- 
van. 
A  silence,  as  before  Creation,  broods 
Sublimely  o'er  the  desert  solitudes. 

ii 

A  silence  as  if  God  in  Heaven  were 
still, 
And  meditating  some  new  wonder  ! 
Earth 
And  Air  the  solemn  portent  own,  and 
thrill 
With  awful  prescience  of  the  coming 
birth. 
And  Night  withdraws,  and  on  their 

silver  cars  > 
Wheel  to  remotest  space  the  trembling 
Stars. 


See!   an  increasing  brightness,  broad 
and  fleet, 
Breaks  on  the  morning  in  a  rosy  flood, 

As  if  He  smiled  to  see  His  work  com- 
plete, 
And  rested  from  it,  and  pronounced 
it  good. 

The  sands  lie  still,  and  every  wind  is 
furled : 

The  Sun  comes  up,  and  looks  upon 
the  world. 

IV 

Is  there  no  burst  of  music  to  proclaim 
The  pomp  and  majesty  of  this  new 
lord?  — 

A  golden  trumpet  in  each  beam  of 
flame, 
Startling  the  universe  with  grand 
accord  ? 

Must  Earth  be  dumb  beneath  the  splen- 
dors thrown 

From  his  full  orb  to  glorify  her  own  ? 


No :    with    an    answering    splendor, 
more  than  sound 
Instinct  with  gratulation,  she  adores. 


With  purple  flame  the  porphyry  hills 
are  crowned, 
And  burn  with   gold  the  Desert's 
boundless  floors ; 

And  the  lone  Man  compels  his  haughty 
knee, 

And,  prostrate  at  thy  footstool,  wor- 
ships thee. 


Before    the    dreadful    glory    of    thy 

face ; 
He  veils  his  sight :  he  fears  the  fiery 

rod 
Which    thou    dost    wield    amid    the 

brightening  space, 
As  if  the  sceptre  of  a  visible  god. 
If  not  the  shadow  of  God's  lustre, 

thou 
Art  the  one  jewel   flaming  on   His 

brow. 

VII 

Wrap  me  within  the  mantle  of  thy 
beams, 
And  feed  my  pulses  with  thy  keenest 
fire! 

Here,  where  thy  full  meridian  deluge 
streams 
Across  the  Desert,  let  my  blood  as- 
pire 

To  ripen  in  the  vigor  of  thy  blaze, 

And  catch  a  warmth  to  shine  through 
darker  days ! 

vni 

I   am   alone   before  thee  :    Lord  of 

Light! 
Begetter  of  the  life  of  things  that 

live ! 
Beget  in  me  thy  calm,  self-balanced 

might ; 
To  me  thine  own  immortal  ardor 

give. 
Yea,  though,  like   her  who  gave  to 

Jove  her  charms, 
My  being  wither  in  thy  fiery  arms. 


Whence  came  thy  splendors  ?   Heaven 
is  filled  with  thee  ; 
The  sky's  blue  walls  are  dazzling 
with  thy  train  ; 
Thou  sitt'st  alone  in  the  Immensity, 
And  in  thy  lap  the  World  grows 
young  again. 


, 


CAMADEVA 


7* 


Bathed  in  such  brightness,  drunken 

with  the  Day, 
He  deems  the  Dark  forever  passed 

away. 


But  thou  dost  sheathe  thy  trenchant 
sword,  and  lean 
"With   tempered   grandeur  towards 
the  western  gate ; 

Shedding    thy    glory    with    a  brow 
serene, 
And  leaving  heaven  all  golden  with 
thy  state : 

Not  as  a  king  discrowned  and  over- 
thrown, 

But  one  who  keeps,  and  shall  reclaim 
his  own. 

Indicm  Ocean,  1853. 


NILOTIC  DRINKING  SONG 


You  may  water  your  bays,  brother- 
poets,  with  lays 
That  brighten   the  cup    from  the 
stream  you  doat  on, 
By  the  Schuylkill's  side,  or  Cochit- 
uate's  tide, 
Or  the  crystal  lymph  of  the  moun- 
tain Croton  : 

(We  may  pledge  from  these 
In  our  summer  ease, 
Nor    even  Anacreon's  shade  revile 
us — ) 

But  I,  from  the  flood 
Of  his  own  brown  blood, 
Will  drink  to  the  glory  of  ancient 
Nilus ! 


Cloud  never  gave  birth,  nor  cradle  the 
Earth, 
To  river  so  grand  and  fair  as  this  is : 
Not  the  waves  that  roll  us  the  gold  of 
Pactolus, 
Nor  cool  Cephissus,  nor  classic  Ilis- 
sus. 

The  lily  may  dip 
Her  ivory  lip 
To  kiss  the  ripples  of  clear  Eurotas; 
But  the  Nile  brings  balm 
From  the  myrrh  and  palm, 
And  the  ripe,  voluptuous  lips  of  the 
lotus. 


The  waves  that  ride  on  his  mighty 
tide 
Were  poured  from  the  urns  of  un vis- 
ited mountains  ; 
And  their  sweets  of  the  South  mingle 
cool  in  the  mouth 
With  the  freshness  and  sparkle  of 
Northern  fountains. 
Again  and  again 
The  goblet  we  drain,  — 
Diviner  a  stream  never  Nereid  swam 
on: 

For  Isis  and  Orus 
Have  quaffed  before  us, 
And  Ganymede  dipped  it  for  Jupiter 
Ammon. 


Its  blessing  he  pours  o'er  his  thirsty 
shores, 
And  floods  the  regions  of  Sleep  and 
Silence, 
When    he    makes    oases    in    desert 
places, 
And  the  plain  is  a  sea,  the  hills  are 
islands. 

And  had  I  the  brave 
Anacreon's  stave, 
And  lips  like  the  honeyed  lips  of 
Hylas, 

I  'd  dip  from  his  brink 
My  bacchanal  drink, 
And  sing  for  the  glory  of  ancient 

Nilus ! 
Nile,  Ethiopia,  1852. 


CAMADEVA 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  mystic  planets 
seven, 
Shone    with  a  purer    and    serener 
flame, 
And  there  was  joy  on  Earth  and  joy  in 
Heaven 
When  Camadeva  came. 

The  blossoms  burst,  like  jewels  of  the 
air, 
Putting  the  colors  of  the  morn  to 
shame ; 
Breathing  their  odorous  secrets  every- 
where 
When  Camadeva  came. 


72 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


The  birds,  upon  the  tufted  tamarind 
spray, 
Sat  side  by  side  and  cooed  in  amorous 
blame  ; 
The  lion  sheathed  his  claws  and  left 
his  prey 
When  Camadeva  came. 

The  sea  slept,  pillowed  on  the  happy 
shore ; 
The  mountain-peaks  were  bathed  in 
rosy  flame  ; 
The  clouds  went  down  the  sky,  —  to 
mount  no  more 
When  Camadeva  came. 

The  hearts  of  all  men  brightened  like 
the  morn ; 
The  poet's  harp  then  first  deserved 
its  fame, 
For  rapture  sweeter  than  he  sang  was 
born 
When  Camadeva  came. 

All    breathing    life    a    newer    spirit 
quaffed 
A  second    life,   a  bliss    beyond  a 
name, 
And  Death,  half-conquered,  dropped 
his  idle  shaft 
When  Camadeva  came. 

India,  1853. 


NUBIA 

A  land  of  Dreams  and  Sleep,  —  a  pop- 
pied land  ! 

With  skies  of  endless  calm  above  her 
head, 

The  drowsy  warmth  of  summer  noon- 
day shed 

Upon  her  hills,  and  silence  stern  and 
grand 

Throughout  her  Desert's  temple-bury- 
ing sand. 

Before  her  threshold,  in  their  ancient 
place, 

With  closed  lips,  and  fixed,  majestic 
face 

Noteless  of  Time,  her  dumb  colossi 
stand. 

Oh,  pass  them  not  with  light,  irrever- 
ent tread ; 

Respect  the  dream  that  builds  her 
fallen  throne, 


And  soothes  her  to  oblivion  of  her  woes. 
Hush !  for  she  does  but  sleep ;  she  is 

not  dead  : 
Action  and  Toil  have  made  the  world 

their  own, 
But  she  hath  built  an  altar  to  Repose. 

1853. 


KILIMANDJARO 


Hail   to   thee,   monarch  of   African 

mountains, 
Remote,     inaccessible,      silent,     and 

lone,  — 
Who,  from  the  heart  of  the  tropical 

fervors, 
Liftest  to  heaven  thine  alien  snows, 
Feeding   forever   the   fountains  that 

make  thee 
Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt ! 


The  years  of  the  world  are  engraved 

on  thy  forehead ; 
Time's  morning  blushed  red  on  thy 

first-fallen  snows ; 
Yet,  lost  in  the  wilderness,  nameless, 

unnoted, 
Of  Man  unbeholden,  thou  wert  not  till 

now. 
Knowledge    alone  is    the    being    of 

Nature, 
Giving  a  soul  to  her  manifold  features, 
Lighting  through  paths  of  the  primi- 
tive darkness 
The  footsteps  of  Truth  and  the  vision 

of  Song. 
Knowledge  has    born   thee  anew  to 

Creation, 
And  long-baffled  Time  at  thy  baptism 

rejoices. 
Take,  then,  a  name,  and  be  filled  with 

existence, 
Yea,  be  exultant  in  sovereign  glory, 
While  from  the  hand  of  the  wandering 

poet 
Drops  the  first  garland  of  song  at  thy 

feet. 

in 

Floating  alone,   on  the  flood  of  thy 

making, 
Through  Africa's  mystery,  silence,  and 

fire, 


THE   BIRTH    OF   THE   PROPHET 


73 


Lo !  in  my  palm,  like  the  Eastern  en- 
chanter, 

I  dip  from  the  waters  a  magical  mirror, 

And  thou  art  revealed  to  my  purified 
vision. 

I  see  thee,  supreme  in  the  midst  of  thy 
co-mates, 

Standing  alone  'twixt  the  Earth  and 
the  Heavens, 

Heir  of  the  Sunset  and  Herald  of 
Morn. 

Zone  above  zone,  to  thy  shoulders  of 
granite, 

The  climates  of  Earth  are  displayed, 
as  an  index, 

Giving  the  scope  of  the  Book  of  Crea- 
tion. 

There,  in  the  gorges  that  widen,  de- 
scending 

From  cloud  and  from  cold  into  summer 
eternal, 

Gather  the  threads  of  the  ice-gendered 
fountains,  — 

Gather  to  riotous  torrents  of  crystal, 

And,  giving  each  shelvy  recess  where 
they  dally 

The  blooms  of  the  North  and  its  ever- 
green turfage, 

Leap  to  the  land  of  the  lion  and  lotus! 

There,  in  the  wondering  airs  of  the 
Tropics 

Shivers  the  Aspen,  still  dreaming  of 
cold  : 

There  stretches  the  Oak,  from  the  loft- 
iest ledges, 

His  arms  to  the  far-away  lands  of  his 
brothers, 

And  the  Pine-tree  looks  down  on  his 
rival,  the  Palm. 

IV 

Bathed  in  the  tenderest  purple  of  dis- 
tance, 

Tinted  and  shadowed  by  pencils  of 
air, 

Thy  battlements  hang  o'er  the  slopes 
and  the  forests, 

Seats  of  the  Gods  in  the  limitless  ether, 

Looming  sublimely  aloft  and  afar. 

Above  them,  like  folds  of  imperial 
ermine, 

Sparkle  the  snow-fields  that  furrow 
thy  forehead,  — 

Desolate  realms,  inaccessible,  silent, 

Chasms  and  caverns  where  Day  is  a 
stranger, 


Garners  where  storeth  his  treasures  the 

Thunder, 
The  Lightning  his  falchion,  his  arrows 

the  Hail ! 


Sovereign  Mountain,  thy  brothers  give 
welcome  : 

They,  the  baptized  and  the  crowned 
of  ages, 

Watch-towers  of  Continents,  altars  of 
Earth, 

Welcome  thee  now  to  their  mighty  as- 
sembly. 

Mont  Blanc,  in  the  roar  of  his  mad 
avalanches, 

Hails  thy  accession;  superb  Orizaba, 

Belted  with  beech  and  ensandalled 
with  palm ; 

Chimborazo,  the  lord  of  the  regions  of 
noonday, — 

Mingle  their  sounds  in  magnificent 
chorus 

With  greeting  august  from  the  Pillars 
of  Heaven, 

Who,  in  the  urns  of  the  Indian  Ganges 

Filter  the  snows  of  their  sacred  domin- 
ions, 

Unmarked  with  a  footprint,  unseen 
but  of  God. 


Lo !  unto  each  is  the  seal  of  his  lord- 
ship, 

Nor  questioned  the  right  that  his  maj- 
esty giveth : 

Each  in  his  lawful  supremacy  forces 

Worship  and  reverence,  wonder  and 

joy. 

Absolute  all,  yet  in  dignity  varied, 
None  has  a  claim  to  the  honors  of  story, 
Or  the  superior  splendors  of  song, 
Greater   than    thou,    in  thy   mystery 

mantled,  — 
Thou,  the   sole  monarch  of  African 

mountains, 
Father  of  Nile  and  Creator  of  Egypt ! 

White  Nile,  1852. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  PROPHET 


Thrice  three  moons  had  waxed  in 
heaven,  thrice  three  moons  had 
waned  away, 


74 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


Since  Abdullah,  faint  and  thirsty,  on 
the  Desert's  bosom  lay 

In  the  fiery  lap  of  Summer,  the  merid- 
ian of  the  day ;  — 


Since  from  out  the  sand  upgushing, 
lo  !  a  sudden  fountain  leapt ; 

Sweet  as  musk  and  clear  as  amber,  to 
his  parching  lips  it  crept. 

When  he  drank  it  straightway  van- 
ished, but  his  blood  its  virtue 
kept. 

in 

Ere  the  morn  his  forehead's  lustre, 
signet  of  the  Prophet's  line, 

To  the  beauty  of  Amina  had  trans- 
ferred its  flame  divine  ; 

Of  the  germ  within  her  sleeping,  such 
the  consecrated  sign. 


And  with  every  moon  that  faded  waxed 

the  splendor  more  and  more, 
Till  Amina's  beauty  lightened  through 

the  matron  veil  she  wore, 
And  the  tent  was  filled  with  glory, 

and  of  Heaven  it  seemed  the 

door. 


"When  her  quickened  womb  its  bur- 
den had  matured,  and  Life  be- 
gan 

Struggling  in  its  living  prison,  through 
the  wide  Creation  rang 

Premonitions  of  the  coming  of  a  God- 
appointed  man. 

VI 

For  the  oracles  of  Nature  recognize  a 

Prophet's  birth,  — 
Blossom  of  ■  the  tardy  ages,  crowning 

type  of  human  worth,  — 
And  by  miracles  and  wonders  he  is 

welcomed  to  the  Earth. 


Then  the  stars  in  heaven  grew  brighter. 

stooping  downward  from  their 

zones ; 
Wheeling  round  the  towers  of  Mecca, 

sang  the  moon  in  silver  tones, 
And  the  Kaaba's  grisly  idols  trembled 

on  their  granite  thrones. 


VIII 

Mighty  arcs  of  rainbow  splendor,  pil- 
lared shafts  of  purple  fire, 

Split  the  sky  and  spanned  the  darkness, 
and  with  many  a  golden  spire, 

Beacon-like,  from  all  the  mountains 
streamed  the  lambent  meteors 
higher. 


But  when  first  the  breath  of  being  to 
the  sacred  infant  came, 

Paled  the  pomp  of  airy  lustre,  and  the 
stars  grew  dim  with  shame, 

For  the  glory  of  his  countenance  out- 
shone their  feebler  flame. 


Over  Ned j id's  sands  it  lightened,  unto 
Oman's  coral  deep, 

Startling  all  the  gorgeous  regions  of 
the  Orient  from  sleep, 

Till,  a  sun  on  night  new-risen,  it  il- 
lumed the  Indian  steep. 


They  who  dwelt  in  Mecca's  borders 
saw  the  distant  realms  appear 

All  around  the  vast  horizon,  shining 
marvellous  and  clear, 

From  the  gardens  of  Damascus  unto 
those  of  Bendemeer. 


From  the  colonnades  of  Tadmor  to 
the  hills  of  Hadramaut, 

Ancient  Araby  was  lighted,  and  her 
sands  the  splendor  caught, 

Till  the  magic  sweep  of  vision  over- 
took the  track  of  Thought. 

XIII 

Such  on  Earth  the  wondrous  glory, 
but  beyond  the  sevenfold  skies 

God  His  mansions  filled  with  gladness, 
and  the  seraphs  saw  arise 

Palaces  of  pearl  and  ruby  from  the 
founts  of  Paradise. 


As  the  surge  of  heavenly  anthems 
shook  the  solemn  midnight  air, 

From  the  shrines  of  false  religions 
came  a  wailing  of  despair, 

And  the  fires  on  Pagan  altars  were 
extinguished  everywhere. 


HASSAN    TO    HIS    MARE 


75 


'Mid  the  sounds  of  salutation,  'mid  the 
splendor  and  the  balm, 

Knelt  the  sacred  child,  proclaiming, 
with  a  brow  of  heavenly  calm  : 

"  God  is  God  ;  there  is  none  other  ;  I 
his  chosen  Prophet  am !  " 

Tadian  Ocean,  1853. 


TO  THE  NILE 

Mysterious   Flood,  —  that    through 
the  silent  sands 
Hast  wandered,  century  on  century, 
Watering  the  length  of  great  Egyptian 
lands, 
Which    were    not,    but    for 
thee, — 

Art  thou  the  keeper  of  that  eldest 
lore, 
Written    ere  yet    thy  hieroglyphs 
began 
When  dawned  upon  thy  fresh,  un- 
trampled  shore 
The  earliest  life  of  Man  ? 

Thou  guardest  temple  and  vast  pyra- 
mid 
Where  the  gray  Past   records  its 
ancient  speech  ; 
But  in  thine  unrevealing  breast  lies 
hid 

What  they  refuse  to  teach. 

All  other  streams  with  human  joys 
and  fears 
Run  blended,  o'er  the  plains  of  His- 
tory : 
Thou  tak'st  no  note  of  Man  ;  a  thou- 
sand years 
Are  as  a  day  to  thee. 

What  were  to  thee  the  Osirian  festi- 
vals ? 
Or  Memnon's  music  on  the  Theban 
plain  ? 
The  carnage,  when  Cambyses  made 
thy  halls 

Ruddy  with  royal  slain  ? 

Even    then    thou  wast  a    God,   and 
shrines  were  built 
For  worship  of  thine  own  majestic 
flood; 


For  thee  the    incense   burned,  —  for 
thee  was  spilt 
The  sacrificial  blood. 

And  past  the  bannered  pylons  that 
arose 
Above   thy  palms,   the  pageantry 
and  state, 
Thy  current  flowed,  calmly  as  now  it 
flows, 
Unchangeable  as  Fate. 

Thou  givest  blessing  as  a  God  might 
give, 
Whose  being  is  his  bounty :   from 
the  slime 
Shaken  from  off  thy  skirts  the  nations 
live, 
Through    all    the    years    of 
Time. 

In  thy  solemnity,  thine  awful  calm, 
Thy  grand  indifference  of  Destiny, 
My  soul  forgets  its  pain,  and  drinks 
the  balm 
Which  thou  dost  proffer  me. 

Thy  god  ship  is  unquestioned  still :  I 
bring 
No  doubtful  worship  to  thy  shrine 
supreme  ; 
But  thus  my  homage  as  a  chaplet 
fling, 
To  float  upon  thy  stream  ! 

1854. 


HASSAN  TO  HIS  MARE 

Come,  my  beauty!  come,  my  desert 
darling ! 
On  my    shoulder   lay    thy    glossy 
head! 
Fear  not,  though  the  barley-sack  be 
empty, 
Here 's  the  half  of  Hassan's  scanty 
bread. 

Thou  shalt  have  thy  share  of  dates, 
my  beauty ! 
And  thou  know'st  my  water-skin  is 
free: 
Drink  and  welcome,  for  the  wells  are 
distant, 
And  my  strength  and  safety  lie  in 
thee. 


76 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


Bend  thy  forehead  now,  to  take  my 
-     kisses ! 
Lift  in  love  thy  dark  and  splendid 
eye: 
Thou  art  glad  when  Hassan  mounts 
the  saddle,  — 
Thou  art  proud  he  owns  thee:   so 
am  I. 

Let    the   Sultan    bring    his  boasted 
horses, 
Prancing  with  their  diamond-stud- 
ded reins  ; 
They,  my  darling,  shall  not  match  thy 
fleetness 
"When  they  course  with  thee  the 
desert-plains ! 

Let    the    Sultan   bring    his    famous 
horses, 
Let  him  bring  his  golden  swords  to 
me,  — 
Bring  his  slaves,  his  eunuchs,  and  his 
harem ; 
He  would  offer  them  in  vain  for 
thee. 

"We    have    seen    Damascus,    O    my 
beauty ! 
And  the    splendor  of    the  Pashas 
there : 
"What 's  their  pomp  and  riches  ?  Why, 
I  would  not 
Take  them  for  a  handful  of  thy 
hair! 

Khaled  sings  the  praises  of  his  mis- 
tress, 
And,  because  I  've  none,  he  pities  me. 
What  care  I  if  he  should  have  a  thou- 
sand, 
Fairer  than  the  morning  ?    I  have 
thee. 

He  will    find    his   passion    growing 
cooler, 
Should  her  glance  on  other  suitors 
fall; 
Thou  wilt  ne'er,  my  mistress  and  my 
darling, 
Fail  to  answer  at  thy  master's  call. 

By  and  by  some  snow-white  Ned j  id 
stallion 
Shall  to  thee  his  spring-time  ardor 
bring; 


And  a  foal,  the  fairest  of  the  Desert, 
To  thy  milky  dugs  shall  crouch  and 
cling. 

Then,  when  Khaled  shows  to  me  his 
children, 
I  shall  laugh,  and  bid  him  look  at 
thine ; 
Thou  wilt  neigh,  and  lovingly  caress 
me, 
With  thy  glossy  neck  laid  close  to 
mine. 

1854. 


CHARMIAN 


0  Daughter  of  the  Sun ; 

Who  gave  the  keys  of  passion  unto 

thee  ? 
Who  taught  the  powerful  sorcery 
Wherein  my  soul,  too  willing  to  be 

won, 
Still  feebly  struggles  to  be  free, 
But  more  than  half  undone  ? 
Within  the  mirror  of  thine  eyes, 
Full  of  the  sleep  of  warm  Egyptian 

skies,  — 
The  sleep  of  lightning,  bound  in  airy 

spell, 
And  deadlier,  because  invisible,  — 

1  see  the  reflex  of  a  feeling 

Which  was  not,  till  I  looked  on  thee : 
A  power,  involved  in  mystery, 
That  shrinks,  affrighted,  from  its  own 
revealing. 


Thou  sitt'st  in  stately  indolence, 
Too  calm  to  feel  a  breath  of  passion 

start 
The  listless  fibres  of  thy  sense, 
The  fiery  slumber  of  thy  heart. 
Thine  eyes  are  wells  of  darkness,  by 

the  veil 
Of  languid  lids  half -sealed:  the  pale 
And  bloodless  olive  of  thy  face, 
And  the  full,  silent  lips  that  wear 
A  ripe  serenity  of  grace, 
Are  dark  beneath  the  shadow  of  thy 

hair. 
Not  from  the  brow  of  templed  Athor 

beams 
Such  tropic  warmth  along  the  path  of 

dreams  ; 


TO   A   PERSIAN    BOY 


77 


Not  from  the  lips  of  horned  Isis  flows 

Such  sweetness  of  repose  ! 

For  thou  art  Passion's  self,  a  goddess 

too, 
And  aught  but  worship  never  knew  ; 
And  thus  thy  glances,  calm  and  sure, 
Look    for  accustomed  homage,   and 

betray 
No  effort  to  assert  thy  sway  : 
Thou  deem' st  my  fealty  secure. 

in 

0  Sorceress  !  those  looks  unseal 
The  undisturbed  mysteries  that  press 
Too  deep  in  nature  for  the  heart  to 

feel 
Their  terror  and  their  loveliness. 
Thine  eyes  are  torches  that  illume 
On  secret  shrines  their  unforeboded 

fires, 
And  fill  the  vaults  of  silence  and  of 

gloom 
With  the  unresting  life  of  new  desires. 

1  follow  where  their  arrowy  ray 
Pierces  the  veil  I  would  not  tear  away, 
And  with  a  dread,  delicious  awe  behold 
Another  gate  of  life  unfold, 

Like  the  rapt  neophyte  who  sees 
Some  march  of  grand  Osirian  mys- 
teries. 
The  startled  chambers  I  explore, 
And  every  entrance  open  lies, 
Forced  by  the  magic  thrill  that  runs 

before 
Thy  slowly-lifted  eyes. 
I  tremble  to  the  centre  of  my  being 
Thus  to  confess  the  spirit's  poise  o'er- 

thrown, 
And  all  its  guiding  virtues  blown 
Like  leaves  before    the  whirlwind's 
fury  fleeing. 


But   see  !   one  memory  rises  in  my 

soul, 
And,  beaming  steadily  and  clear, 
Scatters  the  lurid  thunder-clouds  that 

roll 
Through  Passion's  sultry  atmosphere. 
An  alchemy  more  potent  borrow 
For  thy  dark  eyes,  enticing  Sorceress! 
For  on  the  casket  of  a  sacred  Sorrow 
Their  shafts  fall  powerless. 
Nay,    frown    not,    Athor,    from    thy 

mystic  shrine  : 
Strong  Goddess  of  Desire,  I  will  not  be 


One  of  the  myriad  slaves  thou  callest 
thine, 

To  cast  my  manhood's  crown  of  roy- 
alty 

Before  thy  dangerous  beauty :  I  am 
free  ! 

East  Indies,  1853. 


SMYRNA 

The  "Ornament  of  Asia"  and  the 
"  Crown 

Of  fair  Ionia. "    Yea;  but  Asia  stands 

No  more  an  empress,  and  Ionia's 
hands 

Have  lost  their  sceptre.  Thou,  ma- 
jestic town, 

Art  as  a  diamond  on  a  faded  robe : 

The  freshness  of  thy  beauty  scatters 
yet 

The  radiance  of  that  sun  of  Empire 
set, 

Whose  disk  sublime  illumed  the  an- 
cient globe. 

Thou  sitt'st  between  the  mountains 
and  the  sea ; 

The  sea  and  mountains  flatter  thine 
array, 

And  fill  thy  courts  with  Grandeur, 
not  Decay  ; 

And  Power,  not  Death,  proclaims  thy 
cypress  tree. 

Through  thee,  the  sovereign  symbols 
Nature  lent 

Her  rise,  make  Asia's  fall  magnificent. 

1851. 


TO  A  PERSIAN  BOY 

IN  THE   BAZAAR  AT   SMYRNA 

The  gorgeous  blossoms  of  that  magic 

tree 
Beneath  whose  shade  I  sat  a  thousand 

nights, 
Breathed  from  their  opening  petals  all 

delights 
Embalmed  in  spice  of  Orient  Poesy, 
When  first,  young  Persian,  I  beheld 

thine  eyes, 
And  felt  the  wonder  of  thy  beauty 

grow 
Within  my  brain,  as  some  fair  planet's 

glow 


78 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


Deepens,  and  fills  the  summer  evening 

skies. 
From  under  thy  dark  lashes  shone  on 

me 
The  rich,  voluptuous  soul  of  Eastern 

land, 
Impassioned,  tender,   calm,    serenely 

sad,  — 
Such  as  immortal    Hafiz   felt  when 

he 
Sang  by  the  fountain-streams  of  Roc- 

nabad, 
Or  in  the  bowers  of  blissful  Samarcand. 

1851. 


THE  ARAB  TO  THE  PALM 

Next  to  thee,  O  fair  gazelle, 

O  Beddowee  girl,  beloved  so  well ; 

Next  to  the  fearless  Ned j idee, 
Whose  fleetness  shall  bear  me  again  to 
thee ; 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Palm, 
With  his  leaves  of  beauty,  his  fruit  of 
balm  ; 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Tree 
Whose  fluttering    shadow  wraps  us 

three 
With    love,   and    silence,    and    mys- 
tery! 

Our  tribe  is  many,  our  poets  vie 

With  any  under  the  Arab  sky  ; 

Yet  none  can  sing  of  the  Palm  but  I. 

The  marble  minarets  that  begem 

Cairo's  citadel-diadem 

Are  not  so  light  as  his  slender  stem. 

He  lifts  his  leaves  in  the  sunbeam's 

glance 
As    the    Almehs    lift    their  arms  in 

dance,  — 

A  slumberous  motion,   a  passionate 

sign, 
That  works  in  the  cells  of  the  blood 

like  wine. 

Full  of  passion  and  sorrow  is  he, 
Dreaming  where    the    beloved    may 
be. 


And    when    the    warm    south-winds 

arise, 
He  breathes  his    longing    in    fervid 

"lS,  — 


Quickening  odors,  kisses  of  balm, 
That  drop  in  the  lap  of  his  chosen 
palm. 

The  sun  may  flame  and  the  sands  may 

stir, 
But  the  breath  of  his  passion  reaches 

her. 

O  Tree  of  Love,   by    that    love    of 

thine, 
Teach  me  how  I  shall  soften  mine ! 

Give  me  the  secret  of  the  sun, 
Whereby  the  wooed  is  ever  won ! 

If  I  were  a  King,  O  stately  Tree, 
A  likeness,  glorious  as  might  be, 
In  the  court  of  my  palace  I  'd  build 
for  thee  ! 

With  a  shaft    of    silver,   burnished 

bright, 
And  leaves  of  beryl  and  malachite  ; 

With  spikes  of  golden  bloom  ablaze, 
And  fruits  of  topaz  and  chrysoprase  : 

And  there  the  poets,  in  thy  praise, 
Should  night  and  morning  frame  new 
lays,  — 

New  measures  sung  to  tunes  divine, 
But  none,  O  Palm,  should  equal  mine ! 

Off  Japan,  1853. 


AURUM  POTABILE 


Brother  Bards  of  every  region,  — 
Brother  Bards,  (your  name  is  Legion]) 
Were  you  with  me  while  the  twi- 
light 
Darkens  up  my  pine-tree  skylight,  — 
Were  you  gathered,  representing 

Every  land  beneath  the  sun, 
O,  what  songs  would  be  indited, 
Ere  the  earliest  star  is  lighted, 
To  the  praise  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon  1 


ON   THE   SEA 


79 


Yes  ;  while  all  alone  I  quaff  its 
Lucid  gold,  and  brightly  laugh  its 
Topaz  waves  and  amber  bubbles, 
Still  the  thought  my  pleasure  troubles, 

That  I  quaff  it  all  alone. 
O  for  Hafiz,  —  glorious  Persian ! 
Keats,  with  buoyant,  gay  diversion 
Mocking  Schiller's  grave  immersion  ; 

O  for  wreathed  Anacreon ! 
Yet  enough  to  have  the  living,  — 
They,  the  few,  the  rapture-giving  ! 
(Blessed  more  than  in  receiving, ) 
Fate,     that     frowns    when     laurels 

wreathe  them, 
Once  the  solace  might  bequeath  them, 
Once  to  taste  of  vino  d'oro 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon  ! 


Lebanon,  thou  mount  of  story, 

Well  we  know  thy  sturdy  glory, 
Since  the  days  of  Solomon  ; 

Well  we  know  the  Five  old  Cedars, 

Scarred  by  ages,  —  silent  pleaders, 

Preaching,  in  their  gray  sedateness, 

Of  thy  forest's  fallen  greatness, 

Of  the  vessels  of  the  Tyrian, 

And  the  palaces  Assyrian, 

And  the  temple  on  Moriah 

To  the  High  and  Holy  One  ! 

Know  the  wealth    of    thy    appoint- 
ment, — 

Myrrh  and  aloes,  gum  and  ointment ; 

But   we    knew    not,    till    we    clomb 
thee, 

Of  the  nectar  dropping  from  thee, — 

Of  the  pure,  pellucid  Ophir 

In  the  cups  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon ! 


We  have  drunk,  and  we  have  eaten, 
Where  Egyptian  sheaves  are  beaten ; 
Tasted  Judah's  milk  and  honey 
On  his  mountains,  bare  and  sunny  ; 
Drained  ambrosial    bowls,    that    ask 

us 
Never  more  to  leave  Damascus  ; 
And  have  sung  a  vintage  psean 
To  the  grapes  of  isles  ^Egean, 
And  the  flasks  of  Orvieto, 

Ripened  in  the  Roman  sun: 
But  the  liquor  here  surpasses 
All  that  beams  in  earthly  glasses. 
'T  is  of  this  that  Paracelsus 


(His  elixir  vit?e)  tells  us, 
That  to  happier  shores  can  float  us 
Than  Lethean  stems  of  lotus, 
And  the  vigor  of  the  morning 

Straight  restores  when  day  is 
done. 
Then,  before  the  sunset  waneth, 
While  the  rosy  tide,  that  staineth 
Earth,  and  sky,  and  sea,  remaineth, 
We  will  take  the  fortune  proffered,  — 
Ne'er  again  to  be  re-offered, 
We  will  drink  of  vino  d'oro, 

On  the  Hills  of  Lebanon ! 
Vino  d'oro  !  vino  d'oro  !  — 

Golden  blood  of  Lebanon ! 

1853. 


ON   THE  SEA 

The  splendor  of  the  sinking  moon 

Deserts  the  silent  bay  ; 
The    mountain-isles   loom   large  and 
faint, 
Folded  in  shadows  gray, 
And  the   lights  of  land  are  setting 
stars 
That  soon  will  pass  away. 

0  boatman,  cease  thy  mellow  song ! 

O  minstrel,  drop  thy  lyre  ! 
Let  us  hear  the  voice  of  the  midnight 
sea, 
Let  us  speak  as  the  waves  in- 
spire, 
While  the  plashy  dip  of  the  languid 
oar 
Is  a  furrow  of  silver  fire. 

Day  cannot  make  thee  half  so  fair, 
Nor  the  stars  of  eve  so  dear : 

The  arms  that  clasp  and  the  breast 
that  keeps, 
They  tell  me  thou  art  near, 

And  the  perfect  beauty  of  thy  face 
In  thy  murmured  words  I  hear. 

The  lights  of  land  have  dropped  be- 
low 
The  vast  and  glimmering  sea; 
The  world  we  leave  is  a  tale  that  is 
told,— 
A  fable,  that  cannot  be. 
There  is  no  life  in  the  sphery  dark 
But  the  love  in  thee  and  me  ! 

Macao,  1853. 


8o 


POEMS   OF   THE   ORIENT 


TYRE 


The  wild  and  windy  morning  is  lit 

with  lurid  fire  ; 
The  thundering  surf  of  ocean  beats  on 

the  rocks  of  Tyre,  — 
Beats  on  the  fallen  columns  and  round 

the  headland  roars, 
And  hurls  its  foamy  volume  along  the 

hollow  shores, 
And  calls'  with  hungry  clamor,  that 

speaks  its  long  desire  : 
"Where  are  the  ships  of  Tarshish,  the 

mighty  ships  of  Tyre  ?  " 


Within  her  cunning  harbor,  choked 
with  invading  sand, 

No  galleys  bring  their  freightage,  the 
spoils  of  every  land, 

And  like  a  prostrate  forest,  when  au- 
tumn gales  have  blown, 

Her  colonnades  of  granite  lie  shattered 
and  o'erthrown ; 

And  from  the  reef  the  pharos  no  longer 
flings  its  fire, 

To  beacon  home  from  Tarshish  the 
lordly  ships  of  Tyre. 


Where  is    thy  rod   of  empire,    once 

mighty  on  the  waves,  — 
Thou  that  thyself  exalted,  till  Kings 

bacame  thy  slaves  ? 
Thou  that  didst  speak  to  nations,  and 

saw  thy  will  obeyed,  — 
Whose  favor  made  them  joyful,  whose 

anger  sore  afraid,  — 
Who  laid'st  thy  deep  foundations,  and 

thought  them  strong  and  sure, 
And  boasted  midst  the  waters,  Shall  I 

not  aye  endure  ? 


Where  is  the  wealth  of  ages  that 
heaped  thy  princely  mart  ? 

The  pomp  of  purple  trappings;  the 
gems  of  Syrian  art ; 

The  silken  goats  of  Kedar ;  Sabsea's 
spicy  store  ; 

The  tributes  of  the  islands  thy  squad- 
rons homeward  bore, 

When  in  thy  gates  triumphant  they 
entered  from  the  sea 

With  sound  of  horn  and  sackbut,  of 
harp  and  psaltery  ? 


Howl,  howl,  ye  ships  of  Tarshish !  the 

glory  is  laid  waste : 
There  is  no  habitation  ;  the  mansions 

are  defaced. 
No  mariners  of   Sidon  unfurl    your 

mighty  sails  ; 
No  workmen  fell  the  fir-trees  that  grow 

in  Shenir's  vales 
And   Bashan's   oaks   that   boasted  a 

thousand  years  of  sun, 
Or  hew  the  masts  of  cedar  on  frosty 

Lebanon. 


Rise,  thou  forgotten  harlot !  take  up 
thy  harp  and  sing  : 

Call  the  rebellious  islands  to  own  their 
ancient  king : 

Bare  to  the  spray  thy  bosom,  and  with 
thy  hair  unbound, 

Sit  on  the  piles  of  ruin,  thou  throne- 
less  and  discrowned  ! 

There  mix  thy  voice  of  wailing  with 
the  thunders  of  the  sea, 

And  sing  thy  songs  of  sorrow,  that 
thou  remembered  be  ! 


Though    silent    and    forgotten,    yet 

Nature  still  laments 
The  pomp  and  power  departed,  the 

lost  magnificence  : 
The  hills  were  proud  to  see  thee,  and 

they  are  sadder  now  ; 
The  sea  was  proud  to  bear  thee,  and 

wears  a  troubled  brow, 
And  evermore  the  surges  chant  forth 

their  vain  desire  : 
"Where  are  the  ships  of  Tarshish,  the 

mighty  ships  of  Tyre  ?  " 

Indian  Ocean,  1853. 


AN  ANSWER 

You  call  me  cold  :  you  wonder  why 
The  marble  of  a  mien  like  mine 

Gives  fiery  sparks  of  Poesy, 
Or  softens  at  Love's  touch  divine. 

Go,  look  on  Nature,  you  will  find 
It  is  the  rock  that  feels  the  sun  : 

But    you    are    blind,  —  and    to  the 
blind 
The  touch  of  ice  and  fire  is  one. 

1852. 


L'ENVOI 


GULISTAN 

AN  ARABIC   METRE 

Where    is    Gulistan,    the    Land    of 
Roses  ? 
Not    on    hills    where    Northern 

winters 
Break  their  spears  in  icy  splinters, 
And  in  shrouded  snow  the  world  re- 
poses ; 
But  amid  the  glow  and  splendor 
"Which  the  Orient  summers  lend 
her, 
Blue  the  heaven  above  her  beauty 

closes : 
There  is  Gulistan,  the  Land  of  Roses. 

Northward    stand     the    Persian 

mountains ; 
Southward  spring  the  silver  foun- 
tains 
Which  to  Hafiz  taught  his  sweetest 
measures, 
Clearly  ringing  to  the  singing 
Which  the  nightingales  delight  in, 
When    the    spring,    from   Oman 
winging 
Unto  Shiraz,    showers    her    fragrant 
treasures 
On  the  land,  till  valleys  brighten, 
Mountains  lighten  with  returning 
Fires  of  scarlet  poppy  burning, 
And  the  stream  meanders 
Through  its  roseate  oleanders, 
And  Love's  golden  gate,  unf  olden, 
Opens  on  a  universe  of  pleasures. 

There  the  sunshine  blazes  over 
Meadows  gemmed  with  ruby  clo- 
ver; 
There  the  rose's  heart  uncloses, 
Prodigal  with  hoarded  stores  of  sweet- 
ness, 
And  the  lily's  cup  so  still  is 
Where  the  river's  waters  quiver, 
That  no  wandering  air  can  spill 
his 
Honeyed  balm,  or  blight  his  beauty's 
fleetness. 
Skies  are  fairest,    days  are  rar- 
est,— 
Thou,  O  Earth  !  a  glory  wearest 
From  the  ecstasy  thou  bearest, 
Once  to  feel  the  Summer's  full  com- 
pleteness. 


Twilight  glances,  moonlit  dances, 
Song  by  starlight,  there  entrances 
Youthful  hearts  with  fervid  fan- 
cies, 
And  the  blushing  rose  of  Love  un- 
closes : 
Love  that,  lapped  in  summer  joy- 

ance, 
Far  from  every  rude  annoyance, 
Calmly  on  the  answering  love  reposes ; 
And  in  song,  in  music  only 
Speaks  the  longing,  vague  and 

lonely, 
Which  to  pain  is  there  the  nearest, 
Yet  of  joys  the  sweetest,  dearest, 
As  a  cloud  when  skies  are  clearest 
On  its  folds  intenser  light  discloses: 
This  is  Gulistan,  the  Land  of  Roses. 

1853. 


L'ENVOI 

Unto  the  Desert  and  the  Desert  steed 
Farewell !   The  journey  is  completed 
now  : 
Struck  are  the  tents  of  Ishmael's  wan- 
dering breed, 
And  I  unwind  the  turban  from  my 
brow. 

The  sun  has  ceased    to  shine ;    the 
palms  that  bent, 
Inebriate  with    light,   have  disap- 
peared ; 
And  naught  is  left  me  of  the  Orient 
But  the  tanned  bosom  and  the  un- 
shorn beard. 

Yet  from  that  life  my  blood  a  glow 
retains, 
As  the  red  sunshine  in  the  ruby 
glows  ; 
These  songs  are  echoes  of  its  fiercer 
strains,  — 
Dreams,  that  recall  its  passion  and 
repose. 

I  found,  among  those  Children  of  the 
Sun, 
The  cipher  of  my  nature,  —  the  re- 
lease 
Of    baffled  powers,   which  else  had 
never  won 
That  free  fulfilment,  whose  reward 
is  peace. 


82 


POEMS   OF  THE   ORIENT 


For  not  to  any  race  or  any  clime 
Is  the  completed  sphere  of  life  re- 
vealed ; 
He  who  would  make  his  own  that 
round  sublime, 
Must  pitch  his  tent  on  many  a  dis- 
tant field. 

Upon   his    home    a    dawning    lustre 
beams, 
But  through  the  world  he  walks  to 
open  day, 
Gathering  from  every  land  the  prismal 
gleams, 
"Which,  when  united,  form  the  per- 
fect ray. 


Go,  therefore,  Songs  !  —  which  in  the 
East  were  born 
And  drew  your  nurture  —  from  your 
sire's  control : 
Haply  to  wander  through  the  West 
forlorn, 
Or  find  a  shelter  in  some  Orient  soul. 

And  if  the  temper  of  our  colder  sky 
Less    warmth    of    passion    and  of 
speech  demands, 
They  are  the  blossoms  of  my  life,  — 
and  I 
Have  ripened  in  the  suns  of  many 
lands. 

1854. 


LATER   POEMS 


LYRICS 

1854-1860 


PORPHYROGENITUS 


Bokn*  in  the  purple !  born  in  the  pur- 
ple ! 
Heir  to  the  sceptre  and  crown ! 
Lord  over  millions  and  niillons  of  vas- 
sals, — 
Monarch  of  mighty  renown ! 
Where,   do  you  ask,  are  my  banner- 
proud  castles  ? 
"Where  my  imperial  town? 


Where  are  the  ranks  of  my  far-flashing 
lances,  — 
Trumpets,  courageous  of  sound, — 
Galloping  squadrons  and  rocking  ar- 
madas, 
Guarding  my  kingdom  around  ? 
Where  are  the  pillars  that  blazon  my 
borders, 
Threatening  the  alien  ground  ? 


Vainly  you  ask,  if  you  wear  not  the 
purple, 
Sceptre  and  diadem  own  ; 
Ruling,  yourself,  over  prosperous  re- 
gions, 
Seated  supreme  on  your  throne. 
Subjects  have  nothing  to  give  but 
allegiance: 
Monarchs  meet  monarchs  alone. 

IV 

But,  if  a  king,  you  shall  stand  on  my 
ramparts, 
Look     on     the     lands      that     I 
sway, 
Number    the  domes    of    magnificent 
cities, 
Shining  in  valleys  away,  — 


Number  the  mountains   whose  fore- 
heads are  golden, 
Lakes  that  are  azure  with  day. 


Whence  I  inherited  such  a  dominion  ? 

What  was  my  forefathers'  line  ? 
Homer    and    Sophocles,   Pindar    and 
Sappho, 
First  were  anointed  divine : 
Theirs  were  the  realms  that  a  god 
might  have  governed, 
Ah,  and  how  little  is  mine  ! 

YI 

Hafiz  in  Orient  shared  with  Petrarca 
Thrones    of    the    East    and    the 
West; 
Shakespeare    succeeded    to    limitless 
empire, 
Greatest  of  monarchs,  and  best : 
Few  of  his  children  inherited  king- 
doms, 
Provinces  only,  the  rest. 

YII 

Keats  has  his  vineyards,  and  Shelley 
his  islands ; 
Coleridge  in  Xanadu  reigns ; 
Wordsworth  is  eyried   aloft   on  the 
mountains, 
Goethe  has  mountains  and  plains ; 
Yet,  though  the  world  has  been  par- 
celled among  them, 
A  world  to  be  parcelled  remains. 

VIII 

Blessing  enough  to  be  born  in  the 

purple, 

Though  but  a  monarch  in  name,  — 

Though  in  the  desert  my   palace  is 

builded, 

Far  from  the  highways  of  Fame  : 


86 


LYRICS 


Up  with  my  standards !  salute  me  with 
trumpets ! 
Crown  me  with  regal  acclaim  ! 

1855. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP 

"  Give  us  a  song!  "  the  soldiers  cried, 
The  outer  trenches  guarding, 

When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps 
allied 
Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under ; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Mala- 
koff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder.     . 

There  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman 
said 

"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow  ; 
Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 

Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 
Below  the  smoking  cannon: 

Brave  hearts,  from  Severn  and  from 
Clyde, 
And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame  ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory  : 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "Annie  Laurie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose     like     an     anthem,     rich     and 
strong,  — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,   her  name   he   dared   not 
speak, 

But,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 
Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 

Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 
The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 

While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 
How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 


With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars  ! 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory  ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "Annie  Laurie." 

Sleep,  soldiers  !  still  in  honored  rest 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing  : 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest,  — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 

1856. 


ICARUS 


Io  triumphe  !    Lo,  thy  certain  art, 

My  crafty  sire,  releases  us  at  length ! 

False  Minos  now  may  knit  his  baffled 
brows, 

And  in  the  labyrinth  by  thee  devised 

His  brutish  horns  in  angry  search  may 
toss 

The  Minotaur,  —  but  thou  and  I  are 
free! 

See  where  it  lies,  one  dark  spot  on  the 
breast 

Of  plains  far-shining  in  the  long-lost 
day, 

Thy  glory  and  our  prison !  Either 
hand 

Crete,  with  her  hoary  mountains, 
olive-clad 

In  twinkling  silver,  'twixt  the  vine- 
yard rows, 

Divides  the  glimmering  seas.  On 
Ida's  top 

The  sun,  discovering  first  an  earthly 
throne, 

Sits  down  in  splendor  ;  lucent  vapors 
rise 

From  folded  glens  among  the  awak- 
ing hills, 

Expand  their  hovering  films,  and 
touch,  and  spread 

In  airy  planes  beneath  us,  hearths  of 
air 

Whereon  the  Morning  burns  her  hun- 
dred fires. 

ii 
Take  thou  thy  way  between  the  cloud 

and  wave. 
O  Daedalus,  my  father,  steering  forth 


ICARUS 


87 


To    friendly    Samos,   or   the    Carian 

shore ! 
But  me  the  spaces  of  the  upper  heaven 
Attract,  the  height,  the  freedom,  and 

the  joy. 
For  now,  from  that  dark  treachery 

escaped, 
And  tasting  power  which  was  the  lust 

of  youth, 
Whene'er    the   Avhite    blades   of    the 

sea-gull's  wings 
Flashed  round  the  headland,  or  the 

"barbed  files 
Of  cranes  returning  clanged  across  the 

sky, 
No  half-way  flight,  no  errand  incom- 
plete 
I  purpose.     Not,  as  once  in  dreams, 

with  pain 
I  mount,  with  fear  and  huge  exertion 

hold 
Myself  a  moment,  ere  the  sickening 

fall 
Breaks    in    the    shock    of    waking. 

Launched,  at  last, 
Uplift  on  powerful  wings,  I  veer  and 

float 
Past  sunlit  isles  of  cloud,  that  dot 

with  light 
The  boundless  archipelago  of  sky. 
I  fan  the  airy  silence  till  it  starts 
In  rustling  whispers,  swallowed  up 

as  soon ; 
I  warm    the    chilly  ether  with    my 

breath ; 
I  with  the  beating  of  my  heart  make 

glad 
The  desert  blue.     Have  I  not  raised 

myself 
Unto  this  height,  and  shall  I  cease  to 

soar? 
The  curious  eagles  wheel  about  my 

path: 
With  sharp  and  questioning  eyes  they 

stare  at  me, 
With  harsh,  impatient  screams  they 

menace  me, 
Who,   with    these  vans   of    cunning 

workmanship 
Broad-spread,  adventure  on  their  high 

domain,  — 
Now  mine,  as  well.     Henceforth,  ye 

clamorous  birds, 
I  claim  the  azure  empire  of  the  air ! 
Henceforth  I  breast  the  current  of  the 

morn, 


Between  her  crimson  shores:  a  star, 

henceforth, 
Upon  the  crawling  dwellers  of  the 

earth 
My  forehead   shines.     The  steam  of 

sacred  blood, 

noke 

laid, 

Fumes  of  the  temple-wine,  and  sprin- 
kled myrrh, 
Shall  reach  my  palate  ere  they  reach 

the  Gods. 


Nay,  am  not  I  a  God?  What  other 
wing, 

If  not  a  God's,  could  in  the  rounded 
sky 

Hang  thus  in  solitary  poise  ?  What 
need, 

Ye  proud  Immortals,  that  my  balanced 
plumes 

Should  grow,  like  yonder  eagle's  from 
the  nest  ? 

It  may  be,  ere  my  crafty  father's  line 

Sprang  from  Erectheus,  some  artificer, 

Who  found  you  roaming  wingless  on 
the  hills, 

Naked,  asserting  godship  in  the  dearth 

Of  loftier  claimants,  fashioned  you 
the  same. 

Thence  did  you  seize  Olympus : 
thence  your  pride 

Compelled  the  race  of  men,  your 
slaves,  to  tear 

The  temple  from  the  mountain's  mar- 
ble womb, 

To  carve  you  shapes  more  beautiful 
than  they, 

To  sate  your  idle  nostrils  with  the  reek 

Of  gums  and  spices,  heaped  on  jew- 
elled gold. 


Lo,  where  Hyperion,  through  the 
glowing  air 

Approaching,  drives !  Fresh  from  his 
banquet-meats, 

Flushed  with  Olympian  nectar,  an- 
grily 

He  guides  his  fourfold  span  of  furious 
steeds, 

Convoyed  by  that  bold  Hour  whose 
ardent  torch 

Burns  up  the  dew,  toward  the  narrow 
beach, 


88 


LYRICS 


This  long,  projecting  spit  of  cloudy 

gold 
Whereon  I  wait  to  greet  him  when 

he  comes. 
Think  not  I  fear  thine  anger  :   this 

day,  thou, 
Lord  of  the  silver  bow,  shalt  bring  a 

guest 
To  sit  in  presence  of  the  equal  Gods 
In  your  high  hall:    wheel  but    thy 

chariot  near, 
That  I  may  mount  beside  thee ! 

What  is  this  ? 

I  hear  the  crackling  hiss  of  singed 

plumes ! 
The  stench  of  burning  feathers  stifles 

me! 
My  loins   are    stung  with  drops  of 

molten  wax !  — 
Ai !  ai !  my  ruined  vans !  —  I  fall !  I  die ! 

Ere  the  blue  noon  o'erspanned   the 

bluer  strait 
Which  parts  Icaria  from  Samos,  fell, 
Amid  the  silent  wonder  of  the  air, 
Fell  with  a  shock  that  startled  the 

still  wave, 
A  shrivelled  wreck  of  crisp,  entangled 

plumes, 
A   head   whence    eagles'  beaks    had 

plucked  the  eyes, 
And  clots  of  wax,    black  limbs  by 

eagles  torn 
In    falling :    and    a    circling    eagle 

screamed 
Around  that  floating  horror  of  the  sea 
Derision,  and  above  Hyperion  shone. 

I860. 


THE  BATH 

Off,  fetters  of  the  falser  life,  — 
Weeds,   that    conceal    the    statue's 
form! 
This  silent  world  with  truth  is  rife, 
This  wooing  air  is  warm. 

Now  fall  the  thin  disguises,  planned 
For   men    too  weak   to  walk  un- 
blamed : 
Naked  beside  the  sea  I  stand,  — 
Naked  and  not  ashamed. 

Where  yonder  dancing  billows  dip, 
Far-off,  to  ocean's  misty  verge, 


Ploughs  Morning,   like  a  full-sailed 
ship, 
The  Orient's  cloudy  surge. 

With  spray  of  scarlet  fire  before 

The  ruffled  gold  that  round  her  dies, 
She  sails  above  the  sleeping  shore, 
Across  the  waking  skies. 

The  dewy  beach  beneath  her  glows ; 
A   pencilled  beam,  the   lighthouse 
burns : 
Full-breathed,  the  fragrant  sea-wind 
blows,  — 
Life  to  the  world  returns ! 

I  stand,  a  spirit  newly -born, 
White-limbed  and  pure,  and  strong, 
and  fair  ; 
The  first-begotten  son  of  Morn, 
The  nursling  of  the  air ! 

There,  in  a  heap,  the  masks  of  Earth, 
The  cares,  the  sins,  the  griefs,  are 
thrown : 
Complete,  as  through  diviner  birth, 
I  walk  the  sands  alone. 

With  downy  hands  the  winds  caress, 
With  frothy  lips  the  amorous  sea, 
As  welcoming  the  nakedness 
Of  vanished  gods,  in  me. 

Along  the  ridged  and  sloping  sand, 
Where  headlands  clasp  the  crescent 
cove, 
A  shining  spirit  of  the  land, 
A  snowy  shape,  I  move  : 

Or,  plunged  in  hollow-rolling  brine, 

In  emerald  cradles  rocked  and  swung, 
The  sceptre  of  the  sea  is  mine, 
And  mine  his  endless  song. 

For  Earth  with  primal  dew  is  wet, 
Her  long-lost  child  to  rebaptize  ; 
Her  fresh,  immortal  Edens  yet 
Their  Adam  recognize. 

Her  ancient  freedom  is  his  fee  ; 

Her  ancient  beauty  is  his  dower  : 

She  bares  her  ample  breasts,  that  he 

May  suck  the  milk  of  power. 

Press  on,  ye  hounds  of  life,  that  lurk 
So  close,  to  seize  your  harried  prey, 


THE   PALM   AND   THE   PINE 


89 


Ye    fiends    of    Custom,    Gold,    and 
Work,  — 
I  hear  your  distant  bay ! 

And,  like  the  Arab,  when  he  bears 

To  the  insulted  camel's  path 
His  garment,  which  the  camel  tears, 
And  straight  forgets  his  wrath  ; 

So,  yonder  badges  of  your  sway, 
Life's    paltry    husks,    to     you     I 
give: 
Fall  on,  and  in  your  blindness  say : 
We  hold  the  fugitive  ! 

But  leave  to  me  this  brief  escape 
To     simple    manhood,    pure     and 
free,  — 
A  child  of  God,  in  God's  own  shape, 
Between  the  land  and  sea  ! 

I860. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  TREVI 

The  Coliseum  lifts  at  night 
Its  broken  cells  more  proudly  far 

Than  in  the  noonday's  naked  light, 
For  every  rent  enshrines  a  star  : 
On  Caesar's  hill  the  royal  Lar 

Presides  within  his  mansion  old  : 
Decay  and  Death  no  longer  mar 

The  moon's  atoning  mist  of  gold. 

Still  lingering  near    the   shrines  re- 
newed, 

We  sadly,  fondly,  look  our  last  ; 
Each  trace  concealed  of  spoilage  rude 

From  old  or  late  iconoclast, 

Till,    Trajan's    whispering     forum 
passed, 
We  hear  the  waters,  showering  bright, 

Of  Trevi's  ancient  fountain,  cast 
Their  woven  music  on  the  night. 

The  Genius  of  the  Tiber  nods 

Benign,  above  his  tilted  urn ; 
Kneel  down  and  drink !  the  beckoning 
gods 
This  last  libation  will  not  spurn. 
Drink,    and    the   old    enchantment 
learn 
That  hovers  yet  o'er  Trevi's  foam,  — 

The  promise  of  a  sure  return, 
Fresh    footsteps     in     the     dust    of 
Rome! 


Kneel  down  and  drink!   the  golden 
days 
Here  lived  and  dreamed,  shall  dawn 
again : 
Albano's  hill,  through  purple  haze, 
Again  shall  crown  the  Latin  plain. 
Whatever  stains  of  Time  remain, 
Left  by  the  years  that  intervene, 
Lo !    Trevi's    fount    shall    toss    its 
rain 
To  wash  the  pilgrim's  forehead  clean. 

Drink,  and  depart!  for  Life  is  just : 
She  gives  to  Faith  a  master-key 

To  ope  the  gate  of  dreams  august, 
And  take  from  joys  in  memory 
The  certainty  of  joys  to  be  : 

And  Trevi's  basins  shall  be  bare 
Ere  we  again  shall  fail  to  see 

Their  silver  in  the  Roman  air. 


PROPOSAL 

The  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank, 

The  cowslip  loves  the  lea ; 
The  scarlet  creeper  loves  the  elm, 
But  I  love  —  thee. 

The  sunshine  kisses  mount  and  vale, 

The  stars,  they  kiss  the  sea  ; 
The  west  winds  kiss  the  clover  bloom, 
But  I  kiss  —  thee ! 

The  oriole  weds  his  mottled  mate ; 

The  lily  's  bride  o'  the  bee ; 
Heaven's  marriage-ring  is  round  the 
earth  — 
Shall  I  wed  thee  ? 

1859. 


THE  PALM  AND  THE  PINE 

When  Peter  led  the  First  Crusade, 
A  Norseman  wooed  an  Arab  maid. 

He  loved  her  lithe  and  palmy  grace, 
And  the  dark  beauty  of  her  face  : 

She  loved  his  cheeks,  so  ruddy  fair, 
His  sunny  eyes  and  yellow  hair. 

He  called:  she  left  her  father's  tent; 
She  followed  wheresoe'er  he  went. 


9° 


LYRICS 


She  left  the  palms  of  Palestine 
To  sit  beneath  the  Norland  pine. 

She  sang  the  musky  Orient  strains 
Where  Winter  swept  the  snowy  plains. 

Their   natures   met  like    Night   and 

Morn 
What  time  the  morning-star  is  born. 

The  child  that    from  their  meeting 

grew 
Hung,  like  that  star,  between  the  two. 

The  glossy  night  his  mother  shed 
From  her  long  hair  was  on  his  head : 

But  in  its  shade  they  saw  arise 
The  morning  of  his  father's  eyes. 

Beneath  the  Orient's  tawny  stain 
Wandered    the    Norseman's    crimson 
vein  : 

Beneath  the  Northern  force  was  seen 
The  Arab  sense,  alert  and  keen. 

His  were  the  Viking's  sinewy  hands, 
The  arching  foot  of  Eastern  lands. 

And  in  his  soul  conflicting  strove 
Northern  indifference,  Southern  love; 

The  chastity  of  temperate  blood, 
Impetuous  passion's  fiery  flood  ; 

The  settled  faith  that  nothing  shakes, 
The  jealousy  a  breath  awakes ; 

The  planning  Reason's  sober  gaze, 
And  fancy's  meteoric  blaze. 

And  stronger,  as  he  grew  to  man, 
The  contradicting  natures  ran,  — 

As  mingled  streams  from  Etna  flow, 
One  born  of  fire,  and  one  of  snow. 

And  one  impelled,  and  one  withheld, 
And  one  obeyed,  and  one  rebelled. 

One  gave  him  force,  the  other  fire  ; 
This  self-control,  and  that  desire. 

One  filled  his  heart  with  fierce  unrest ; 
With  peace  serene  the  other  blessed. 


He  knew  the  depth  and   knew  the 

height, 
The  bounds  of  darkness  and  of  light ; 

And  who  these  far  extremes  has  seen 
Must   needs   know   all   that  lies  be- 
tween. 

So,  with  untaught,  instinctive  art, 
He  read  the  myriad-natured  heart. 

He  met  the  men  of  many  a  land  ; 
They  gave  their  souls  into  his  hand ; 

And  none  of  them  was  long  unknown 
The  hardest  lesson  was  his  own. 

But  how  he  lived,   and  where,  and 

when 
It  matters  not  to  other  men ; 

For,  as  a  fountain  disappears, 
To  gush  again  in  later  years, 

So  hidden  blood  may  find  the  day, 
When  centuries  have  rolled  away ; 

And  fresher  lives  betray  at  last 
The  lineage  of  a  far-off  Past. 

That  nature,  mixed  of  sun  and  snow 
Repeats  its  ancient  ebb  and  flow : 

The  children  of  the  Palm  and  Pine 
Renew  their  blended  lives  —  in  mine. 

1855. 


THE  VINEYARD-SAINT 

She,  pacing  down  the  vineyard  walks, 
Put  back  the  branches,  one  by  one, 

Stripped   the  dry  foliage    from    the 
stalks, 
And  gave  their  bunches  to  the  sun. 

On  fairer  hillsides,  looking  south, 
The  vines  were  brown  with  canker- 
ous rust, 
The  earth  was  hot  with  summer  drouth, 
And  all  the  grapes  were  dim  with 
dust. 

Yet  here  some  blessed  influence  rained 
From    kinder     skies,     the 
through ; 


ON    LEAVING    CALIFORNIA 


9i 


On  every  bunch  the  bloom  remained, 
And  every  leaf  was  washed  in  dew. 

I  saw  her  blue  ej^es,  clear  and  calm  ; 

I  saw  the  aureole  of  her  hair  ; 
I  heard    her  chant    some    unknown 
psalm, 

In  triumph  half,  and  half  in  prayer. 

"  Hail,  maiden  of  the  vines  !  "  I  cried  : 
"  Hail,  Oread  of  the  purple  hill  ! 

For  vineyard  fauns  too  fair  a  bride, 
For  me  thy  cup  of  welcome  fill ! 

"Unlatch  the  wicket ;  let  me  in, 
And,  sharing,  make  thy  toil  more 
dear: 
No  riper  vintage  holds  the  bin 
Than  that  our  feet  shall  trample 
here. 

"  Beneath  thy  beauty's  light  I  glow, 

As  in  the  sun  those  grapes  of  thine : 
Touch  thou  my  heart  with  love,  and 
lo! 
The    foaming   must    is    turned    to 
wine  !  " 

She,  pausing,  stayed  her  careful  task, 
And,  lifting  eyes  of  steady  ray, 

Blew,  as  a  wind  the  mountain's  mask 
Of  mist,  my  cloudy  words  away. 

No  troubled  flush  o'erran  her  cheek ; 

But  when  her  quiet  lips  did  stir, 
My  heart  knelt  down  to  hear  her  speak, 

And  mine  the  blush  I  sought  in  her. 

"  Oh,  not  for  me,"  she  said,  "  the  vow 
So  lightly  breathed,  to  break  erelong; 

The  vintage-garland  on  the  brow  ; 
The  revels  of  the  dancing  throng  ! 

"  To  maiden  love  I  shut  my  heart, 
Yet  none  the  less  a  stainless  bride  ; 

I  work  alone,  I  dwell  apart, 
Because  my  work  is  sanctified. 

"  A  virgin  hand  must  tend  the  vine, 
By  virgin  feet  the  vat  be  trod, 

"Whose  consecrated  gush  of  wine 
Becomes  the  blessed  blood  of  God ! 

"  No  sinful  purple  here  shall  stain, 
Nor    juice    profane    these    grapes 
afford ; 


But    reverent    lips    their     sweetness 
drain 
Around  the  Table  of  the  Lord. 

"  The  cup  I  fill,  of  chaster  gold, 
Upon  the  lighted  altar  stands  ; 

There,  when  the  gates  of  heaven  un- 
fold, 
The  priest  exalts  it  in  his  hands. 

"  The  censer  yields  adoring  breath, 
The  awful  anthem  sinks  and  dies, 

While    God,    who  suffered    life  and 
death, 
Renews  His  ancient  sacrifice. 

"  O  sacred  garden  of  the  vine ! 

And  blessed  she,  ordained  to  press 
God's  chosen  vintage,  for  the  wine 

Of  pardon  and  of  holiness ! " 

I860. 


ON  LEAVING  CALIFORNIA 

O   fair  young   land,    the  youngest, 
fairest  far 
Of  which  our  world  can  boast,  — 
Whose    guardian    planet,    Evening's 
silver  star 
Illumes  thy  golden  coast,  — 

How  art  thou  conquered,  tamed  in  all 
the  pride 
Of  savage  beauty  still ! 
How  brought,  0  panther  of  the  splen« 
did  hide, 
To  know  thy  master's  will ! 

No  more  thou  sittest  on  thy  tawny 
hills 
In  indolent  repose  ; 
Or  pour'st  the  crystal  of  a  thousand 
rills 
Down  from  thy  house  of  snows. 

But  where  the  wild-oats  wrapped  thy 
knees  in  gold, 
The  ploughman  drives  his  share, 
And  where,  through  canons  deep,  thy 
streams  are  rolled, 
The  miner's  arm  is  bare. 

Yet  in  thy  lap,  thus  rudely  rent  and 
torn 
A  nobler  seed  shall  be ; 


92 


LYRICS 


Mother  of  mighty  men,  thou  shalt  not 
mourn 
Thy  lost  virginity ! 

Thy  human  children  shall  restore  the 
grace 

Gone  with  thy  fallen  pines  : 
The  wild,  barbaric  beauty  of  thy  face 

Shall  round  to  classic  lines. 

And  Order,  Justice,  Social  Law  shall 
curb 
Thy  untamed  energies ; 
And    Art    and    Science,    with    their 
dreams  superb, 
Replace  thine  ancient  ease. 

The  marble,  sleeping  in  thy  mountains 
now, 
Shall  live  in  sculptures  rare  ; 
Thy  native  oak  shall  crown  the  sage's 
brow,  — 
Thy  bay,  the  poet's  hair. 

Thy  tawny    hills    shall    bleed    their 
purple  wine, 

Thy  valleys  yield  their  oil ; 
And  Music,  with  her  eloquence  divine, 

Persuade  thy  sons  to  toil. 

Till  Hesper,    as  he  trims  his  silver 
beam, 
No  happier  land  shall  see, 
And  Earth  shall  find  her  old  Arcadian 
dream 
Restored  again  in  thee  ! 


WIND  AND  SEA 


The  sea  is  a  jovial  comrade, 

He  laughs  wherever  he  goes  ; 
His  merriment  shines  in  the  dimpling 
lines 
That  wrinkle  his  hale  repose ; 
He  lays  himself  down  at  the  feet  of 
the  Sun, 
And  shakes  all  over  with  glee, 
And    the    broad-backed    billows   fall 
faint  on  the  shore, 
In  the  mirth  of  the  mighty  Sea  ! 


But  the  "Wind  is  sad  and  restless, 
And  cursed  with  an  inward  pain 


You  may  hark  as  you  will,  by  valley 
or  hill, 
But  you  hear  him  still  complain. 
He  wails  on  the  barren  mountains, 
And  shrieks  on  the  wintry  sea  ; 
He  sobs  in  the  cedar,  and  moans  in 
the  pine, 
And  shudders  all  over  the  aspen 
tree. 


Welcome  are  both  their  voices, 

And  I  know  not  which  is  best,  — 
The    laughter    that    slips    from    the 
Ocean's  lips, 

Or  the  comfortless  Wind's  unrest. 
There 's  a  pang  in  all  rejoicing, 

A  joy  in  the  heart  of  pain, 
And  the  Wind  that  saddens,  the  Sea 
that  gladdens, 

Are  singing  the  selfsame  strain. 

1855. 

-    MY  DEAD 

Give  back  the  soul  of  youth  once 
more ! 
The  years  are  fleeting  fast  away, 
And  this  brown  hair  will  soon  be 
gray, 
These  cheeks  be  pale  and  furrowed 


Ah,  no,  the  child  is  long  since  dead, 
Whose  light  feet  spurred  the  lag- 
gard years, 
Who   breathed    in    future    atmos- 
pheres, 
Ere  Youth's  eternal  Present  fled. 

Dead  lies  the  boy,  whose  timid  eye 
Shunned  every  face  that  spake  not 

love; 
Whose  simple  vision  looked  above, 

And  saw  a  glory  in  the  sky. 

And  now  the  youth  has  sighed  his  last ; 
I  see  him  cold  upon  his  bier, 
But  in  these  eyes  there  is  no  tear  : 

He  j  oins  his  brethren  of  the  Past. 

'T  was  time  he  died  :  the  gates  of  Art 
Had  shut  him  from  the  temple's 

shrine, 
And  now  I  climb  her  mount  divine, 

But  with  the  sinews,  not  the  heart. 


STUDIES   FOR   PICTURES 


93 


How  many  more,  O  Life  !  shall  I 
In  future  offer  up  to  thee  ? 
And  shall  they  perish  utterly, 

Upon  whose  graves  I  clomb  so  high  ? 

Say,  shall  I  not  at  last  attain 
Some  height,  from  whence  the  Past 

is  clear, 
In  whose  immortal  atmosphere 

I  shall  behold  my  Dead  again  ? 

1S55. 

THE  LOST  CROWN 

You  ask  me  why  I  sometimes  drop 
The  threads  of  talk  I  weave  with 
you, 

And  midway  in  expression  stop 
As  if  a  sudden  trumpet  blew. 

It  is  because  a  trumpet  blows 
From  steeps  your  feet  will  never 
climb: 

It  calls  my  soul  from  present  woes 
To  rule  some  buried  realm  of  Time. 

Wide  open  swing  the  guarded  gates, 
That  shut  from  you  the  vales  of 
dawn  ; 

And  there  my  car  of  triumph  waits, 
By  white,  immortal  horses  drawn. 

A  throne  of  gold  the  wheels  uphold, 
Each  spoke  a  ray  of  jewelled  fire  : 

The  crimson  banners  float  unrolled, 
Or  falter  when  the  winds  expire. 

Lo !  where  the  valley's  bed  expands, 
Through  cloudy  censer-smoke,  up- 
curled  — 

The  avenue  to  distant  lands  — 
The  single  landscape  of  a  world ! 

I  mount  the  throne  ;  I  seize  the  rein  ; 

Between  the  shouting  throngs  I  go, 
The  millions  crowding  hill  and  plain, 

And  now  a  thousand  trumpets  blow! 

The  armies  of  the  world  are  there, 
The  pomp,   the    beauty,    and    the 
power, 

Far-shining  through  the  dazzled  air, 
To  crown  the  triumph  of  the  hour. 

Enthroned  aloft,  I  seem  to  float 
On  wide,  victorious  wings  upborne, 


Past  the  rich  vale's  expanding  throat, 
To  where  the  palace  burns  with 
morn. 

My  limbs  dilate,  my  breast  expands, 
A  starry  fire  is  in  my  eye  ; 

I  ride  above  the  subject  lands, 
A  god  beneath  the  hollow  sky. 

Peal  out,  ye  clarions!  shout,  ye 
throngs, 

Beneath  your  banners'  reeling  folds ! 
This  pageantry  to  me  belongs,  — 

My  hand  its  proper  sceptre  holds. 

Surge  on,  in  still  augmenting  lines, 
Till  the  great  plain  be  overrun, 

And  my  procession  far  outshines 
The  bended  pathway  of  the  sun  ! 

But  when  my  triumph  overtops 
This  language,  which  from  vassals 
grew, 
The    crown    from  off    my  forehead 
drops, 
And  I  again  am  serf  with  you. 

1855. 

STUDIES  FOR  PICTURES 


AT  HOME 

The  rain  is  sobbing  on  the  wold ; 
The  house  is  dark,  the  hearth  is  cold  ; 
And,  stretching  drear  and  ashy  gray 
Beyond  the  cedars,  lies  the  bay. 

The  winds  are  moaning,  as  they  pass 
Through    tangled    knots  of  autumn 

grass,  — 
A  weary,  dreary  sound  of  woe, 
As  if  all  joy  were  dead  below. 

I  sit  alone,  I  wait  in  vain 
Some  voice  to  lull  this  nameless  pain  ; 
But  from  my  neighbor's  cottage  near 
Come    sounds    of    happy    household 
cheer. 

My  neighbor  at  his  window  stands, 
His  youngest  baby  in  his  hands  ; 
The  others  seek  his  tender  kiss, 
And  one  sweet  woman    crowns    his 
bliss. 


94  LYRICS 


I  look  upon  the  rainy  wild  : 
I  have  no  wife,  I  have  no  child  : 
There  is  no  fire  upon  my  hearth, 
And  none  to  love  me  on  the  earth. 


II 


THE   NEIGHBOR 

How  cool  and  wet  the  lowlands  lie 
Beneath  the  cloaked  and  wooded  sky ! 
How  softly  beats  the  welcome  rain 
Against  the  plashy  window-pane ! 

There  is  no  sail  upon  the  bay  : 
We  cannot  go  abroad  to-day, 
But,  darlings,  come  and  take  my  hand, 
And  hear  a  tale  of  Fairy-land. 

The  baby's  little  head  shall  rest 
In  quiet  on  his  father's  breast, 
And  mother,  if  he  chance  to  stir, 
Shall  sing  him  songs  once  sung  to  her. 

Ah,  little  ones,  ye  do  not  fret 
Because  the  garden  grass  is  wet ; 
Te  love  the  rains,  whene'er  they  come, 
That  all  day  keep  your  father  home. 

No  fish  to-day  the  net  shall  yield  ; 
The  happy  oxen  graze  afield  ; 
The  thirsty  corn  will  drink  its  fill, 
And  louder  sing  the  woodland  rill. 

Then,     darlings,     nestle    round    the 

hearth ; 
Ye  are  the  sunshine  of  the  earth  : 
Your  tender  eyes  so  fondly  shine, 
They  bring  a  welcome  rain  to  mine. 


Ill 

UNDER  THE   STARS 

How  the  hot  revel's  fever  dies, 
Beneath  the  stillness  of  the  skies! 
How  suddenly  the  whirl  and  glare 
Shoot  far  away,  and  this  cold  air 
Its  icy  beverage  brings,  to  chase 
The  burning  wine-flush  from  my  face ! 
The  window's  gleam  still  faintly  falls, 
And  music  sounds  at  intervals, 
Jarring  the  pulses  of  the  night 
With  whispers  of  profane  delight; 


But  on  the  midnight's  awful  strand, 
Like  some  wrecked  swimmer  flung  to 

land, 
I  lie,  and  hear  those  breakers  roar  : 
And   smile  —  they  cannot   harm  me 

more ! 

Keep,  keep  your  lamps  ;  they  do  not 

mar 
The  silver  of  a  single  star. 
The  painted  roses  you  display 
Drop   from  your    cheeks,    and    fade 

away  ; 
The  snowy  warmth  you  bid  me  see 
Is  hollowness  and  mockery  ; 
The  words  that  make    your  sin  so 

fair 
Grow  silent  in  this  vestal  air  ; 
The  loosened  madness  of  your  hair, 
That  wrapped  me  in  its  snaky  coils, 
No    more    shall    mesh   me    in    your 

toils ; 
Your  very  kisses  on  my  brow 
Burn  like  the  lips  of  devils  now. 
O  sacred  night !     0  virgin  calm ! 
Teach  me  the  immemorial  psalm 
Of  your  eternal  watch  sublime 
Above  the  grovelling  lusts  of  Time  ! 
Within,  the  orgie  shouts  and  reels  ; 
Without,  the  planets'  golden  wheels 
Spin,    circling    through   the   utmost 

space ; 
Within,  each  flushed  and  reckless  face 
Is  masked  to  cheat  a  haunting  care ; 
Without,  the  silence  and  the  prayer. 
Within,  the  beast  of  flesh  controls; 
Without,  the  God  that  speaks  in  souls ! 


IV 

IN  THE  MORNING 

The  lamps  were  thick ;   the  air  was 
hot; 
The    heavy    curtains    hushed    the 
room; 
The  sultry  midnight  seemed  to  blot 
All  life  but  ours  in  vacant  gloom. 

You  spoke:  my  blood  in  every  vein 
Throbbed,     as    by    sudden    fever 
stirred, 
And  some    strange  whirling  in    my 
brain 
Subdued  my  judgment,  as  I  heard. 


Ah,  yes  !  when  men  are  dead  asleep, 
When  all  the  tongues  of  day  are 
still, 
The    heart    must    sometimes  fail   to 
keep 
Its  natural  poise  'twixt  good  and  ill. 

You  knew  too  well  its  blind  desires, 
Its    savage    instincts,    scarce    con- 
fessed ; 
I  could  not  see  you  touch  the  wires, 
But     felt    your    lightning    in    my 
breast. 

For  you,  Life's  web  displayed  its  flaws, 
The  wrong  which  Time  transforms 
to  right : 

The  iron  mesh  of  social  laws 
Was  but  a  cobweb  in  your  sight. 

You  showed  that  tempting  freedom, 
where 
The    passions    bear    their    perfect 
fruit, 
The  cheats  of  conscience  cannot  scare, 
And  Self  is  monarch  absolute. 

And  something  in  me  seemed  to  rise, 
And  trample  old  obedience  down  : 

The  serf  sprang  up,  with  furious  eyes, 
And  clutched  at  the  imperial  crown. 

That  fierce  rebellion  overbore 
The  arbiter  that  watched  within, 

Till  Sin  so  changed  an  aspect  wore, 
It  was  no  longer  that  of  Sin. 

You  gloried  in  the  fevered  flush 

That  spread,  defiant,  o'er  my  face, 
Nor  thought  how  soon  this  morning's 
blush 
Would  chronicle    the    night's   dis- 
grace. 

I  wash  my  eyes  ;  I  bathe  my  brow  ; 

I  see  the  sun  on  hill  and  plain  ; 
The  old  allegiance  claims  me  now, 

The  old  content  returns  again. 

Ah,  seek  to  stop  the  sober  glow 

And   healthy  airs  that   come   with 
day, 

For  when  the  cocks  at  dawning  crow 
Your  evil  spirits  flee  away. 

1S55. 


SUNKEN   TREASURES 

SUNKEN  TREASURES 


95 


When  the  uneasy  waves  of  life  sub- 
side, 
And    the  soothed   ocean  sleeps  in 
glassy  rest, 
I  see,  submerged  beyond  or  storm  or 
tide, 
The  treasures  gathered  in  its  greedy 
breast. 

There  still  they  shine,    through  the 
translucent  Past, 
Far    down  on   that    forever  quiet 
floor  ; 
No  fierce  upheaval  of  the  deep  shall 
cast 
Them  back,  —  no  wave  shall  wash 
them  to  the  shore. 

I  see  them    gleaming,    beautiful   as 
when 
Erewhile  they   floated,  convoys  of 
my  fate  ; 
The  barks  of  lovely  women,   noble 
men, 
Full-sailed  with  hope,  and  stored 
with  Love's  own  freight. 

The  sunken  ventures  of  my  heart  as 
well, 
Look  up  to  me,   as  perfect  as  at 
dawn ; 
My  golden  palace  heaves  beneath  the 
swell 
To  meet  my  touch,  and  is  again 
withdrawn. 

There    sleep     the    early     triumphs, 
cheaply  won, 
That  led  Ambition  to  his  utmost 
verge, 
And  still  his  visions,  like  a  drowning 
sun, 
Send  up  receding  splendors  through 
the  surge. 

There  wait  the  recognitions,  the  quick 
ties, 
Whence   the  heart  knows  its  kin, 
wherever  cast ; 
And    there   the   partings,    when    the 
wistful  eyes 
Caress  each  other  as  they  look  their 
last. 


96 


LYRICS 


Tliere  lie  the  summer  eves,  delicious 
eves, 
The  soft    green    valleys    drenched 
with  light  divine, 
The  lisping  murmurs  of  the  chestnut 
leaves, 
The  hand  that  lay,  the  eyes  that 
looked  in  mine. 

There  lives  the  hour  of  fear  and  rapture 

yet, 

The  perilled  climax  of  the  passion- 
ate years ; 
There  still  the  rains  of  wan  December 
wet 

A  naked  mound,  —  I  cannot  see  for 
tears ! 

There  are  they  all :  they  do  not  fade 
or  waste, 
Lapped  in  the  arms  of  the  embalm- 
ing brine  ; 
More  fair  than  when  their  beings  mine 
embraced,  — 
Of  nobler  aspect,  beauty  more  di- 
vine. 

I  see  them  all,  but  stretch  my  hands 
in  vain ; 
No  deep-sea  plummet  reaches  where 
they  rest ; 
No  cunning  di^er  shall  descend  the 
main, 
And  bring  a  single  jewel  from  its 
breast. 

1855. 


THE  VOYAGERS 

No  longer  spread  the  sail. ! 

No  longer  strain  the  oar ! 
For  never  yet  has  blown  the  gale 

Will  bring  us  nearer  shore. 

The  swaying  keel  slides  on, 

The  helm  obeys  the  hand  ; 
Fast  we  have  sailed  from  dawn  to 
dawn, 

Yet  never  reach  the  land. 

Each  morn  we  see  its  peaks, 
Made  beautiful  with  snow  ; 

Each    eve    its    vales    and    winding 
creeks, 
That  sleep  in  mist  below. 


At  noon  we  mark  the  gleam 

Of  temples  tall  and  fair  ; 
At  midnight  watch  its  bonfires  stream 

In  the  auroral  air. 

And  still  the  keel  is  swift, 

And  still  the  wind  is  free, 
And  still  as  far  its  mountains  lift 

Beyond  the  enchanted  sea. 

Yet  vain  is  all  return, 

Though  false  the  goal  before  ; 
The  gale  is  ever  dead  astern, 

The  current  sets  to  shore. 

O  shipmates,  leave  the  ropes,  — 
And  what  though  no  one  steers, 

We  sail  no  faster  for  our  hopes, 
No  slower  for  our  fears. 

Howe'er  the  bark  is  blown, 
Lie  down  and  sleep  awhile  : 

What  profits  toil,  when  chance  alone 
Can  bring  us  to  the  isle  ? 

1855. 

SONG 

Now  the  days  are  brief  and  drear  : 
Naked  lies  the  new-born  Year 
In  his  cradle  of  the  snow, 
And  the  winds  unbridled  blow, 
And  the  skies  hang  dark  and  low,  — 
For  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

Leave  the  clashing  cymbals  mute ! 
Pipe  no  more  the  happy  flute ! 
Sing  no  more  that  dancing  rhyme 
Of  the  rose's  harvest-time  ;  — 
Sing  a  requiem,  sad  and  low  : 
For  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

Where  is  Youth  ?    He  strayed  away 
Through  the  meadow-flowers  of  May. 
Where  is  Love  ?    The  leaves  that  fell 
From  his  trysting-bower,  can  tell. 
Wisdom  stays,  sedate  and  slow, 
And  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

Yet  a  few  more  years  to  run, 
Wheeling  round  in  gloom  and  sun : 
Other  raptures,  other  woes,  — 
Toil  alternate  with  Repose  : 
Then  to  sleep  where  daisies  grow, 
While  the  Summers  come  and  go. 

1858. 


A   PICTURE 
THE  MYSTERY 

thou  art  not  gone 


97 


Thou  art  not  dead 
to  dust ; 

No  line  of  all  thy  loveliness  shall  fall 
To  formless  ruin,  smote  by  Time,  and 
thrust 
Into  the  solemn  gulf  that  covers  all. 

Thou  canst  not  wholly  perish,  though 
the  sod 
Sink  with  its  violets  closer  to  thy 
breast ; 
Though  by  the  feet  of  generations 
trod, 
The  headstone  crumbles  from  thy 
place  of  rest. 

The  marvel  of  thy  beauty  cannot  die ; 
The  sweetness  of  thy  presence  shall 
not  fade  ; 
Earth  gave  not  all  the  glory  of  thine 
eye, — 
Death  may  not  keep  what  Death 
has  never  made. 

It  was  not  thine,  that  forehead  strange 
and  cold, 
Nor  those  dumb  lips,  they  hid  be- 
neath the  snow  ; 
Thy  heart  would  throb  beneath  that 
passive  fold, 
Tliy  hands  for  me  that  stony  clasp 
forego. 

But  thou  hadst  gone,  —  gone  from  the 
dreary  land, 
Gone  from  the  storms  let  loose  on 
every  hill, 
Lured  by  the  sweet  persuasion  of  a 
hand 
Which  leads  thee  somewhere  in  the 
distance  still. 

Where'er  thou  art,  I  know  thou  wear- 
est  yet 
The  same  bewildering  beauty,  sanc- 
tified 
By  calmer  joy,  and  touched  with  soft 
regret 
For    him   who    seeks,    but    cannot 
reach  thy  side. 

I  keep  for  thee  the  living  love  of  old, 
And  seek  thy  place  in  Nature,  as  a 
child 


Whose  hand  is  parted  from  his  play- 
mate's hold, 
Wanders  and  cries  along  a  lonesome 
wild. 


When,  in  the  watches  of  my  heart,  I 
hear 
The  messages  of  purer    life,   and 
know 
The  footsteps  of  thy  spirit  lingering 
near, 
The  darkness  hides  the  way  that  I 
should  go. 

Canst  thou  not  bid  the  empty  realms 
restore 
That  form,  the  symbol  of  thy  hea- 
venly part  ? 
Or  on  the  fields    of    barren    silence 
pour 
That  voice,  the  perfect  music  of  thy 
heart  ? 

Oh  once,  once"  bending  to  these  wid- 
owed lips, 
Take  back  the  tender  warmth  of 
life  from  me, 
Or  let  thy  kisses  cloud  with  swift 
eclipse 
The  light  of  mine,   and   give  me 
death  with  thee  ? 

1851. 


A  PICTURE 

Sometimes,   in    sleeping    dreams  of 
night, 

Or  waking  dreams  of  day, 
The  selfsame  picture  seeks  my  sight 

And  will  not  fade  away. 

I  see  a  valley,  cold  and  still, 

Beneath  a  leaden  sky  : 
The  woods  are  leafless  on  the  hill, 

The  fields  deserted  lie. 

The  gray  November  eve  benumbs 
The  damp  and  cheerless  air  ; 

A  wailing  from  the  forest  comes, 
As  of  the  world's  despair. 

But  on  the  verge  of  night  and  storm, 
Far  down  the  valley's  line, 

I  see  the  lustre,  red  and  warm, 
Of  cottage  windows  shine. 


98 


LYRICS 


And  men  are  housed,   and  in  their 
place 

In  snug  and  happy  rest, 
Save  one,  who  walks  with  weary  pace 

The  highway's  frozen  breast. 

His  limbs,  that  tremble  with  the  cold, 
Shrink  from  the  coming  storm  ; 

But  underneath  his  mantle's  fold 
His  heart  beats  quick  and  warm. 

He  hears  the  laugh  of  those  who  sit 

In  Home's  contented  air  ; 
He  sees  the  busy  shadows  flit 

Across  the  window's  glare. 

His  heart  is  full  of  love  unspent, 
His  eyes  are  wet  and  dim ; 

For  in  those  circles  of  content 
There  is  no  room  for  him. 

He  clasps  his  hands  and  looks  above, 

He  makes  the  bitter  cry  : 
"All,  all  are  happy  in  their  love,  — 

All  are  beloved  but  I!  " 

Across  no  threshold  streams  the  light, 

Expectant,  o'er  his  track  ; 
No  door  is  opened  on  the  night, 

To  bid  him  welcome  back. 

There  is  no  other  man  abroad 

In  all  the  wintry  vale, 
And  lower  upon  his  lonely  road 

The  darkness  and  the  gale. 

I  see  him  through  the  doleful  shades 
Press  onward,  sad  and  slow, 

Till  from  my  dream  the  picture  fades, 
And  from  my  heart  the  woe. 

1854. 

IN  THE  MEADOWS 

I  lie  in  the  summer  meadows, 

In  the  meadows  all  alone, 
With  the  infinite  sky  above  me, 

And  the  sun  on  his  midday  throne. 

The  smell  of  the  flowering  grasses 

Is  sweeter  than  any  rose, 
And  a  million  happy  insects 

Sing  in  the  warm  repose. 

The  mother  lark  that  is  brooding 
Feels  the  sun  on  her  wings, 


And  the  deeps  of  the  noonday  glitter 
With  swarms  of  fairy  things. 

From  the  billowy  green  beneath  me 
To  the  fathomless  blue  above, 

The  creatures  of  God  are  happy 
In  the  warmth  of  their  summer  love. 

The  infinite  bliss  of  Nature 

I  feel  in  every  vein  ; 
The  light  and  the  life  of  Summer 

Blossom  in  heart  and  brain. 

But  darker  than  any  shadow 
By  thunder-clouds  unfurled, 

The  awful  truth  arises, 
That  Death  is  in  the  world  ! 

And  the  sky  may  beam  as  ever, 
And  never  a  cloud  be  curled ; 

And  the  airs  be  living  odors, 
But  Death  is  in  the  world ! 

Out  of  the  deeps  of  sunshine 
The  invisible  bolt  is  hurled: 

There  's  life  in  the  summer  meadows, 
But  Death  is  in  the  world  ! 

1854. 

"DOWN  IN  THE  DELL  I 
WANDERED " 

Down  in  the  dell  I  wandered, 

The  loneliest  of  our  dells, 
Where  grow  the  lowland  lilies, 

Dropping  their  foam-white  bells, 
And  the  brook  among  the  grasses 

Toys  with  its  sand  and  shells. 

Fair  were  the  meads  and  thickets, 
And  sumptuous  grew  the  trees, 

And  the  folding  hills  of  harvest 
Were    thrilled    with    the   rippling 
breeze, 

But  I  heard  beyond  the  valley, 
The  hum  of  the  plunging  seas. 

The  birds  and  the  vernal  grasses, 
They  wooed  me  sweetly  and  long, 

But  the  magic  of  ocean  called  me, 
Murmuring  free  and  strong, 

And  the  voice  of  the  peaceful  valley 
Mixed  with  the  billow's  song ! 

"  Stay  in  the  wood's  embraces! 
Stay  in  the  dell's  repose ! " 


THE   PHANTOM 


99 


"Float  on  the  limitless  azure, 
Flecked  with  its  foamy  snows  ! " 

These  were  the  flattering  voices, 
Mingled  in  musical  close. 

Bliss  in  the  soft,  green  shelter, 
Fame  on  the  boundless  blue; 

Free  with  the  winds  of  the  ages, 
Nestled  in  shade  and  dew  : 

Which  shall  I  yield  forever  ? 
Which  shall  I  clasp  and  woo  ? 

SONG 

They  call  thee  false  as  thou  art  fair, 

They  call  thee  fair  and  free,  — 
A  creature  pliant  as  the  air 

And  changeful  as  the  sea  : 
But  I,  who  gaze  with  other  eyes,  — 

Who  stand  and  watch  afar,  — 
Behold  thee  pure  as  yonder  skies 

And  steadfast  as  a  star  ! 

Thine  is  a  rarer  nature,  born 

To  rule  the  common  crowd, 
And  thou  dost  lightly  laugh  to  scorn 

The  hearts  before  thee  bowed. 
Thou  dreamest  of  a  different  love 

Than  comes  to  such  as  these  ; 
That  soars  as  high  as  heaven  above 

Their  shallow  sympathies. 

A  star  that    shines   with    flickering 
spark 

Thou  dost  not  wane  away, 
But  shed'st  adown  the  purple  dark 

The  fulness  of  thy  ray  : 
A  rose,  whose  odors  freely  part 

At  every  zephyr's  will, 
Thou  keep'st  within  thy  folded  heart 

Its  virgin  sweetness  still ! 

THE  PHANTOM 

Again  I  sit  within  the  mansion, 

In  the  old,  familiar  seat ; 
And  shade  and  sunshine  chase  each 
other 

O'er  the  carpet  at  my  feet. 


But 


have 


the     sweet-brier's     arms 

wrestled  upwards 
In  the  summers  that  are  past, 
And  the    willow  trails  its  branches 

lower 
Than  when  I  saw  them  last. 


They  strive  to  shut  the  sunshine  wholly 
From  out  the  haunted  room; 

To  fill  the  house,  that  once  was  joyful, 
With  silence  and  with  gloom. 

And  many  kind,  remembered  faces 
Within  the  doorway  come,  — 

Voices,  that  wake  the  sweeter  music 
Of  one  that  now  is  dumb. 

They  sing,  in  tones  as  glad  as  ever, 
The  songs  she  loved  to  hear  ; 

They  braid  the  rose  in  summer  gar- 
lands, 
Whose  flowers  to  her  were  dear. 

And  still,  her  footsteps  in  the  passage, 

Her  blushes  at  the  door, 
Her  timid  words  of  maiden  welcome, 

Come  back  to  me  once  more. 

And,  all  forgetful  of  my  sorrow, 

Unmindful  of  my  pain, 
I  think  she  has  but  newly  left  me, 

And  soon  will  come  again. 

She     stays    without,     perchance,     a 
moment 

To  dress  her  dark-brown  hair ; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  garments  — 

Her  light  step  on  the  stair ! 

O  fluttering  heart !  control  thy  tumult, 
Lest  eyes  profane  should  see 

My  cheeks  betray  the  rush  of  rapture 
Her  coming  brings  to  me ! 

She  tarries  long  :  but  lo !  a  whisper 

Beyond  the  open  door, 
And,  gliding  through  the  quiet  sun- 
shine, 

A  shadow  on  the  floor! 

Ah!    'tis    the  whispering    pine  that 
calls  me, 
The  vine,  whose  shadow  strays ; 
And  my  patient  heart  must  still  await 
her, 
Nor  chide  her  long  delays. 

But  my  heart  grows  sick  with  weary 
waiting, 

As  many  a  time  before  : 
Her  foot  is  ever  at  the  threshold, 

Yet  never  passes  o'er. 

1854. 


L.ofC. 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 


PREFACE 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GODDESS 

Not  as  in  youth,  with  steps  outspeeding  morn, 

And  cheeks  all  bright,  from  rapture  of  the  way, 
But  in  strange  mood,  half  cheerful,  half  forlorn, 
She  comes  to  me  to-day. 

Does  she  forget  the  trysts  we  used  to  keep, 

When  dead  leaves  rustled  on  autumnal  ground, 
Or  the  lone  garret,  whence  she  banished  sleep 
With  threats  of  silver  sound  ? 

Does  she  forget  how  shone  the  happy  eyes 

When  they  beheld  her,  —  how  the  eager  tongue 
Plied  its  swift  oar  through  wave-like  harmonies, 
To  reach  her  where  she  sung  ? 

How  at  her  sacred  feet  I  cast  me  down  ? 

How  she  upraised  me  to  her  bosom  fair, 
And  from  her  garland  shred  the  first  light  crown 
That  ever  pressed  my  hair  ? 

Though  dust  is  on  the  leaves,  her  breath  will  bring 

Their  freshness  back  :  why  lingers  she  so  long  ? 
The  pulseless  air  is  waiting  for  her  wing, 
Dumb  with  unuttered  song. 

If  tender  doubt  delay  her  on  the  road, 

Oh  let  her  haste  to  find  the  doubt  belied ! 
If  shame  for  love  unworthily  bestowed, 
That  shame  shall  melt  in  pride. 

If  she  but  smile,  the  crystal  calm  shall  break 

In  music,  sweeter  than  it  ever  gave, 
As  when  a  breeze  breathes  o'er  some  sleeping  lake, 
And  laughs  in  every  wave. 

The  ripples  of  awakened  song  shall  die 

Kissing  her  feet,  and  woo  her  not  in  vain, 
Until,  as  once,  upon  her  breast  I  lie  — 
Pardoned,  and  loved  again ! 


INSCRIPTION 

TO  THE  MISTRESS  OF  CEDARCROFT 


The  evening  shadows  lengthen  on  the  lawn  : 
Westward,  our  immemorial  chestnuts  stand, 

A  mount  of  shade  ;  but  o'er  the  cedars  drawn, 
Between  the  hedge-row  trees,  in  many  a  band 

Of  brightening  gold,  the  sunshine  lingers  on, 
And  soon  will  touch  our  oaks  with  parting  hand  : 

And  down  the  distant  valley  all  is  still, 

And  flushed  with  purple  smiles  the  beckoning  hill. 


Come,  leave  the  flowery  terrace,  leave  the  beds 
Where  Southern  children  wake  to  Northern  air : 

Let  yon  mimosas  droop  their  tufted  heads, 
These  myrtle-trees  their  nuptial  beauty  wear, 

And  while  the  dying  day  reluctant  treads 
From  tree-top  unto  tree-top,  with  me  share 

The  scene's  idyllic  peace,  the  evening's  close, 

The  balm  of  twilight,  and  the  land's  repose. 

in 

Come,  for  my  task  is  done  :  the  task  that  drew 
My  footsteps  from  the  chambers  of  the  Day,  — 

That  held  me  back.  Beloved,  even  from  you, 
That  are  my  daylight:  for  the  Poet's  way 

Turns  into  many  a  lonely  avenue 
Where  none  may  follow.     He  must  sing  his  lay 

First  to  himself,  then  to  the  One  most  dear ; 

Last,  to  the  world.     Come  to  my  side,  and  hear ! 


The  poems  ripened  in  a  heart  at  rest, 
A  life  that  first  through  you  is  free  and  strong, 

Take  them  and  warm  them  in  your  partial  breast, 
Before  they  try  the  common  air  of  song ! 

Fame  won  at  home  is  of  all  fame  the  best : 
Crown  me  your  poet,  and  the  critic's  wrong 

Shall  harmless  strike  where  you  in  love  have  smiled, 

Wife  of  my  heart,  and  mother  of  my  child ! 

I860. 


THE    POET'S   JOURNAL 

FIRST  EVENING 

The  day  had  come,  the  day  of  many  years. 

My  bud  of  hope,  thorned  round  with  guarding  fears, 

And  sealed  with  frosts  of  oft-renewed  delay, 

Burst  into  sudden  bloom  —  it  was  the  day ! 
11  Ernest  will  come ! "  the  early  sunbeams  cried ; 
"  Will  come !  "  was  breathed  through  all  the  woodlands  wide  ; 
"  Will  come,  will  come! "  said  cloud,  and  brook,  and  bird; 

And  when  the  hollow  roll  of  wheels  was  heard 

Across  the  bridge,  it  thundered,  "  He  is  near!" 

And  then  my  heart  made  answer,  " He  is  here!" 

Ernest  was  here,  and  now  the  day  had  gone 

Like  other  days,  yet  wild  and  swift  and  sweet,  — 

And  yet  prolonged,  as  if  with  whirling  feet 

One  troop  of  duplicated  Hours  sped  on 

And  one  trod  out  the  moments  lingeringly  : 

So  distant  seemed  the  lonely  dawn  from  me. 

But  all  was  well.     He  paced  the  new-mown  lawn, 

With  Edith  at  his  side,  and,  while  my  firs 

Stood  bronzed  with  sunset,  happy  glances  cast 

On  the  familiar  landmarks  of  the  Past. 

I  heard  a  gentle  laugh :  the  laugh  was  hers. 
"  Confess  it,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  recognize, 

No  less  than  you,  the  features  of  the  place, 

So  often  have  I  seen  it  with  the  eyes 

Your  memory  gave  me  :  yea,  your  very  face, 

"With  every  movement  of  the  theme,  betrayed 

That  here  the  sunshine  lay,  and  there  the  shade." 
"  A  proof !  "  cried  Ernest.     "Let  me  be  your  guide," 

She  said,  "and  speak  not :  Philip  shall  decide." 

To  them  I  went,  at  beckon  of  her  hand. 

A  moment  she  the  mellow  landscape  scanned 

In  seeming  doubt,  but  only  to  prolong 

A  witching  aspect  of  uncertainty, 

And  the  soft  smile  in  Ernest's  watching  eye  : 
"  Yonder,"  she  said,  "(I  see  I  am  not  wrong, 

By  Philip's  face,)  you  built  your  hermit  seat 

Against  the  rock,  among  the  scented  fern, 

Where  summer  lizards  played  about  your  feet ; 

And  here,  beside  us,  is  the  tottering  urn 

You  cracked  in  fixing  firmly  on  its  base ; 

And  here  —  yes,  yes !  —  this  is  the  very  place  — 

I  know  the  wild  vine  and  the  sassafras  — 

Where  you  and  Philip,  lying  in  the  grass, 


106  THE   POET'S    JOURNAL 

Disowned  the  world,  renounced  the  race  of  men, 
And  you  all  love,  except  your  own  for  him, 
Until,  through  that,  all  love  came  back  again." 
Here  Edith  paused  ;  but  Ernest's  eyes  were  dim. 
He  kissed  her,  gave  a  loving  hand  to  me, 
And  spoke  :  ' '  Ah,  Philip,  Philip,  those  were  days 
We  dare  remember  now,  when  only  blaze 
Far-off,  the  storm's  black  edges  brokenly. 
Who  thinks,  at  night,  that  morn  will  ever  be  ? 
Who  knows,  far  out  upon  the  central  sea, 
That  anywhere  is  land  ?    And  yet,  a  shore 
Has  set  behind  us,  and  will  rise  before  : 
A  past  foretells  a  future."     ''Blessed  be 
That  Past!  "  I  answered,  "on  whose  bosom  lay 
Peace,  like  a  new-born  child  :  and  now,  I  see, 
The  child  is  man,  begetting  day  by  day 
Some  fresher  joy,  some  other  bliss,  to  make 
Your  life  the  fairer  for  his  mother's  sake." 

Deeper  beneath  the  oaks  the  shadows  grew  : 

The  twilight  glimmer  from  their  tops  withdrew, 

And  purple  gloomed  the  distant  hills,  and  sweet 

The  sudden  breath  of  evening  rose,  with  balm 

Of  grassy  meadows :  in  the  upper  calm 

The  pulses  of  the  stars  began  to  beat: 

The  fire-flies  twinkled  :  through  the  lindens  went 

A  rustle,  as  of  happy  leaves  composed 

To  airy  sleep,  of  drowsy  petals  closed, 

And  the  dark  land  lay  silent  and  content. 

We,  too,  were  silent.     Ernest  walked,  I  knew, 

With  me,  beneath  the  stars  of  other  eves  : 

He  heard,  with  me,  the  tongues  of  perished  leaves  : 

Departed  suns  their  trails  of  splendor  drew 

Across  departed  summers :  whispers  came 

From  voices,  long  ago  resolved  again 

Into  the  primal  Silence,  and  we  twain, 

Ghosts  of  our  present  selves,  yet  still  the  same, 

As  in  a  spectral  mirror  wandered  there. 

Its  pain  outlived,  the  Past  was  only  fair. 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  I  had  touched  his  hand, 

And  felt  upon  my  lips  the  brother-kiss 

That  shames  not  manhood,  —  years  of  quiet  bliss 

To  me,  fast-rooted  on  paternal  land, 

Mated,  yet  childless.     He  had  journeyed  far 

Beyond  the  borders  of  my  life,  and  whirled 

Unresting  round  the  vortex  of  the  world, 

The  reckless  child  of  some  eccentric  star, 

Careless  of  fate,  yet  with  a  central  strength 

I  knew  would  hold  his  life  in  equipoise, 

And  bent  his  wandering  energies,  at  length, 

To  the  smooth  orbit  of  serener  joys. 

Few  were  the  winds  that  wafted  to  my  nest 

A  leaf  from  him  :  I  learned  that  he  was  blest,  — 

The  late  fulfilment  of  my  prophecy,  — 

And  then  I  felt  that  he  must  come  to  me, 

The  old,  unswerving  sympathy  to  claim  ; 


FIRST   EVENING  107 

And  set  my  house  in  order  for  a  guest 
Long  ere  the  message  of  his  coming  came. 

In  gentle  terraces  my  garden  fell 
Down  to  the  rolling  lawn.     On  one  side  rose, 
Flanking  the  layers  of  bloom,  a  bolder  swell 
"With  laurels  clad,  and  every  shrub  that  grows 
Upon  our  native  hills,  a  bosky  mound, 
Whence  the  commingling  valleys  might  be  seen 
Bluer  and  lovelier  through  the  gaps  of  green. 
The  rustic  arbor  which  the  summit  crowned 
Was  woven  of  shining  smilax,  trumpet-vine, 
Clematis,  and  the  wild  white  eglantine, 
"Whose  tropical  luxuriance  overhung 
The  interspaces  of  the  posts,  and  made 
For  each  sweet  picture  frames  of  bloom  and  shade. 
It  was  my  favorite  haunt  when  I  was  young, 
To  read  my  poets,  watch  ni}-  sunset  fade 
Behind  my  father's  hills,  and,  when  the  moon 
Shed  warmer  silver  through  the  nights  of  June, 
Dream,  as  't  were  new,  the  universal  dream. 
This  arbor,  too,  was  Ernest's  hermitage  : 
Here  he  had  read  to  me  his  tear-stained  page 
Of  sorrow,  here  renewed  the  pang  supreme 
Which  burned  his  youth  to  ashes  :  here  would  try 
To  lay  his  burden  in  the  hands  of  Song, 
And  make  the  Poet  bear  the  Lover's  wrong, 
But  still  his  heart  impatiently  would  cry : 
"  In  vain,  in  vain !     You  cannot  teach  to  flow 
In  measured  lines  so  measureless  a  woe. 
First  learn  to  slay  this  wild  beast  of  despair, 
Then  from  his  harmless  jaws  your  honey  tear  !  " 

Hither  we  came.     Beloved  hands  had  graced 
The  table  with  a  flask  of  mellow  juice, 
Thereto  the  gentle  herb  that  poets  use 
When  Fancy  droops,  and  in  the  corner  placed 
A  lamp,  that  glimmered  through  its  misty  sphere 
Like  moonlit  marble,  on  a  pedestal 
Of  knotted  roots,  against  the  leafy  wall. 
The  air  was  dry,  the  night  was  calm  and  clear, 
And  in  the  dying  clover  crickets  chirped. 
The  Past,  I  felt,  the  Past  alone  usurped 
Our  thoughts,  —  the  hour  of  confidence  had  come, 
Of  sweet  confession,  tender  interchange, 
Which  drew  our  hearts  together,  yet  with  strange 
Half-dread  repelled  them.     Seeing  Ernest  dumb 
With  memories  of  the  spot,  as  if  to  me 
Belonged  the  right  his  secrets  to  evoke, 
And  Edith's  eyes  on  mine,  consentingly, 
Conscious  of  all  I  wished  to  know,  I  spoke : 
"  Dear  Friend,  one  volume  of  your  life  I  read 
Beneath  these  vines  :  you  placed  it  in  my  hand 
And  made  it  mine,  — but  how  the  tale  has  sped 
Since  then,  I  know  not,  or  can  understand 
From  this  fair  ending  only.     Let  me  see 


io8 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 


The  intervening  chapters,  dark  and  bright, 
In  order,  as  you  lived  them.     Give  to-night 
Unto  the  Past,  dear  Ernest,  and  to  me !  " 
Thus  I,  with  doubt  and  loving  hesitance, 
Lest  I  should  touch  a  nerve  he  fain  would  hide ; 
But  he,  with  calm  and  reassuring  glance, 
In  which  no  troubled  shadow  lay,  replied : 
"That  mingled  light  and  darkness  are  no  more 
In  this  new  life,  than  are  the  sun  and  shade 
Of  painted  landscapes  :  distant  lies  the  shore 
Where  last  we  parted,  Philip  :  howl  made 
The  journey,  what  adventures  on  the  road, 
What  haps  I  met,  what  struggles,  what  success 
Of  fame,  or  gold,  or  place,  concerns  you  less, 
Dear  friend,  than  how  I  lost  that  sorest  load 
I  started  with,  and  came  to  dwell  at  last 
In  the  House  Beautiful.     There  but  remains 
A  fragment  here  and  there,  —  wild,  broken  strains 
And  scattered  voices  speaking  from  the  Past. " 
"  Let  me  those  broken  voices  hear,"  I  said, 
"  And  I  shall  know  the  rest."     "  Well  —  be  it  so. 
You,  who  would  write  '  Besurgam '  o'er  my  dead, 
The  resurrection  of  my  heart  shall  know." 

Then  Edith  rose,  and  up  the  terraces 
Went  swiftly  to  the  house  ;  but  soon  we  spied 
Her  white  dress  gleam,  returning  through  the  trees, 
And,  softly  flushed,  she  came  to  Ernest's  side, 
A  volume  in  her  hand.     But  he  delayed 
Awhile  his  task,  revolving  leaf  by  leaf 
With  tender  interest,  now  that  ancient  grief 
No  more  had  power  to  make  his  heart  afraid ; 
For  pain,  that  only  lives  in  memory, 
Like  battle-scars,  it  is  no  pain  to  show. 
"  Here,  Philip,  are  the  secrets  you  would  know," 
He  said  :  "  Howe'er  obscure  the  utterance  be, 
The  lamp  you  lighted  in  the  olden  time 
Will  show  my  heart' s-blood  beating  through  the  rhyme: 
A  poet's  journal,  writ  in  fire  and  tears 
At  first,  blind  protestations,  blinder  rage, 
(For  you  and  Edith  only,  many  a  page !) 
Then  slow  deliverance,  with  the  gaps  of  years 
Between,  and  final  struggles  into  life, 
Which  the  heart  shrank  from,  as  't  were  death  instead." 
Then,  with  a  loving  glance  towards  his  wife, 
Which  she  as  fondly  answered,  thus  he  read :  — 


THE  TORSO 


In  clay  the  statue  stood  complete, 
As  beautiful  a  form,  and  fair, 

As  ever  walked  a  Roman  street 
Or  breathed  the  blue  Athenian  air ; 
The  perfect  limbs,  divinely  bare, 


Their  old,  heroic  freedom  kept, 

And  in  the  features,  fine  and  rare, 
A  calm,  immortal  sweetness  slept. 

ii 

O'er  common  men  it  towered,  a  god, 
And   smote  their  meaner  life  with 
shame, 


FIRST   EVENING 


109 


For  while  its  feet  the  highway  trod, 
Its  lifted  brow  was  crowned  with 

flame 
And  purified  from  touch  of  blame  : 

Yet  wholly  human  was  the  face, 
And  over  them  who  saw  it  came 

The  knowledge  of  their  own  disgrace. 


It  stood,  regardless  of  the  crowd, 

And    simply    showed    what    men 
might  be : 
Its  solemn  beauty  disavowed 

The  curse  of  lost  humanity. 

Erect    and    proud,    and    pure  and 
free, 
It  overlooked  each  loathsome  law 

Wkereunto  others  bend  the  knee, 
And  only  what  was  noble  saw. 


The  patience  and  the  hope  of  years 
Their  final  hour  of  triumph  caught ; 

The  clay  was  tempered  with  my  tears, 
The  forces  of  my  spirit  wrought 
With  hands  of  fire  to  shape  my 
thought, 

That  when,  complete,  the  statue  stood, 
To  marble  resurrection  brought, 

The  Master  might  pronounce  it  good. 


But  in  the  night  an  enemy, 
Who  could  not  bear    the    wreath 
should  grace 
My  ready  forehead,  stole  the  key 
And  hurled  my  statue  from  its  base ; 
And  now  its  fragments  strew  the 
place 
Where  I  had  dreamed  its  shrine  might 
be: 
The  stains  of  common  earth  deface 
Its  beauty  and  its  majesty. 


The  torso  prone  before  me  lies  ; 

The  cloven  brow  is  knit  with  pain  : 
Mute    lips,    and    blank,    reproachful 
eyes 

Unto  my  hands  appeal  in  vain. 

My  hands  shall  never  work  again  : 
My   hope  is    dead,    my   strength    is 
spent : 

This  fatal  wreck  shall  now  remain 
The  ruined  sculptor's  monument. 

I860. 


ON  THE  HEADLAND 

I  sit  on  the  lonely  headland, 
Where  the  sea-gulls  come  and  go : 

The  sky  is  gray  above  me, 
And  the  sea  is  gray  below. 

There  is  no  fisherman's  pinnace 
Homeward  or  outward  bound ; 

I  see  no  living  creature 
In  the  world's  deserted  round. 

I  pine  for  something  human, 
Man,  woman,  young  or  old,  — 

Something  to  meet  and  welcome, 
Something  to  clasp  and  hold. 

I  have  a  mouth  for  kisses, 

But  there 's  no  one  to  give  and  take ; 
I  have  a  heart  in  my  bosom 

Beating  for  nobody's  sake. 

0  warmth  of  love  that  is  wasted ! 
Is  there  none  to  stretch  a  hand? 

No  other  heart  that  hungers 
In  all  the  living  land  ? 

1  could  fondle  the  fisherman's  baby, 
And  rock  it  into  rest ; 

I  could  take  the  sunburnt  sailor, 
Like  a  brother,  to  my  breast. 

I  could  clasp  the  hand  of  any 

Outcast  of  land  or  sea, 
If  the  guilty  palm  but  answered 

The  tenderness  in  me ! 

The  sea  might  rise  and  drown  me,  — 
Cliffs  fall  and  crush  my  head,  — 

Were  there  one  to  love  me,  living, 
Or  weep  to  see  me  dead  ! 

1855. 

MARAH 

The  waters  of  my  life  were  sweet, 
Before  that  bolt  of  sorrow  fell ; 

But  now,  though  fainting  with  the 
heat, 
I  dare  not  drink  the  bitter  well. 

My  God !  shall  Sin  across  the  heart 
Sweep  like  a  wind  that  leaves  no 
trace, 

But  Grief  inflict  a  rankling  smart 
No  after  blessing  can  efface  ? 


no 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 


I  see  the  tired  mechanic  take 
His  evening  rest  beside  his  door, 

And  gentlier,  for  their  father's  sake, 
His  children  tread  the  happy  floor : 

The    kitchen   teems    with    cheering 
smells, 
With  clash  of  cups  and  clink  of 
knives, 
And  all  the  household  picture  tells 
Of  humble  yet  contented  lives. 

Then  in  my  heart  the  serpents  hiss : 
What  right  have  these,  who  scarcely 
know 

The  perfect  sweetness  of  their  bliss, 
To  flaunt  it  thus  before  my  woe? 

Like  bread,  Love's  portion  they  divide, 
Like  water  drink  his  precious  wine, 

When  the  least  crumb  they  cast  aside 
Were  manna  for  these  lips  of  mine. 

I  see  the  friend  of  other  days 

Lead  home  his  flushed  and  silent 
bride ! 

His  eyes  are  suns  of  tender  praise, 
Her  eyes  are  stars  of  tender  pride. 

Go,  hide  your  shameless  happiness, 
The  demon  cries,  within  my  breast ; 

Think  not  that  I  the  bond  can  bless, 
Which  seeing,  1  am  twice  unblest. 

The  husband  of  a  year  proclaims 
His  recent  honor,  shows  the  boy, 

And  calls  the  babe  a  thousand  names, 
And  dandles  it  in  awkward  joy  : 

And    then — I    see    the    wife's    pale 
cheek, 

Her  eyes  of  pure,  celestial  ray  — 
The  curse  is  choked  :  I  cannot  speak, 

But,  weeping,  turn  my  head  away ! 

1860. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  TEMPTER 

Last  night  the  Tempter  came  to  me, 

and  said : 
"Why    sorrow  any    longer    for  the 

dead? 
The  wrong  is  done :   thy  tears  and 

groans  are  naught : 
Forget  the  Past,  —  thy  pain  but  lives 

in  thought. 


Night  after  night,  I  hear  thy  cries 

implore 
An  answer:  she  will  answer  thee  no 

more. 
Give  up  thine  idle  prayer  that  Death 

may  come 
And  thou  mayest  somewhere  find  her  : 

Death  is  dumb 
To  those  that  seek  him.     Live  :  for 

youth  is  thine. 
Let  not  thy  rich  blood,  like  neglected 

wine, 
Grow  thin  and  stale,  but  rouse  thyself, 

at  last, 
And  take  a  man's  revenge  upon  the 

Past. 
What  have  thy  virtues  brought  thee? 

Let  them  go, 
And  With  them  lose  the  burden  of  thy 

woe, 
Their  only  payment  for  thy  service 

hard  : 
They  but  exact,  thou  see'st,  and  not 

reward. 
Thy   life    is  cheated,   thou   art  cast 

aside 
In  dust,  the  worn-out  vessel  of  their 

pride. 
Come,  take  thy  pleasure :   others  do 

the  same, 
And  love  is  theirs,  and  fortune,  name, 

and  fame ! 
Let  not  the  name  of  Vice  thine  ear 

affright : 
Vice  is  no  darkness,  but  a  different 

light, 
Which  thou  dost  need,  to  see  thy  path 

aright : 
Or  if  some  pang  in  this  experience  lie, 
Through    counter-pain    thy    present 

pain  will  die. 
Bethink  thee  of  the  lost,  the  barren 

years, 
Of  harsh  privations,  unavailing  tears, 
The  steady  ache  of  strong  desires  re- 
strained, 
And  what  thou  hast  deserved,  and 

what  obtained  : 
Then  go,  thou  fool !  and,  if  thou  canst, 

rejoice 
To  make  such  base  ingratitude  thy 

choice, 
While  each    indulgence    which    thy 

brethren  taste 
But  mocks  thy  palate,  as  it  runs  to 

waste  !" 


FIRST   EVENING 


So  spake  the  Tempter,  as  he  held  out- 
spread 

Alluring  pictures  round  my  prostrate 
head. 

Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  in  my  help- 
less ear 

His  honeyed  voice  rang  musical  and 
clear  ; 

And  half  persuaded,  shaken  half  with 
fear, 

I  heard  him,  till  the  Morn  began  to 
shine, 

And  found  her  brow  less  dewy-wet 
than  mine. 
i860. 

EXORCISM 

0  tongues  of  the  Past,  be  still ! 
Are  the  days  not  over  and  gone  ? 

The  joys  have  perished  that  were  so 
sweet, 
But  the  sorrow  still  lives  on. 

1  have  sealed  the  graves  of  my  hopes ; 
I  have  carried  the  pall  of  love : 

Let  the  pains  and  pangs  be  buried  as 
deep, 
And  the  grass  be  as  green  above  ! 

But  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  arise : 
They    come    when    the    board    is 
spread  ; 
They  poison  the  wine  of  the  banquet 
cups 
With  the  mould    their    lips  have 
shed. 

The  pulse  of  the  bacchant  blood 
May  throb  in  the  ivy  wreath, 

But  the  berries  are  plucked  from  the 
nightshade  bough 
That  grows  in  the  gardens  of  Death. 

I  sleep  with  joy  at  my  heart, 

Warm  as  a  new-made  bride; 
But  a  vampire    comes   to  suck  her 
blood, 
And  I  wake  with  a  corpse  at  my 
side. 

O  ghosts,  I  have  given  to  you 
The  bliss  of  the  faded  years  ; 

The  sweat  of  my  brow,  the  blood  of 
my  heart. 
And  manhood's  terrible  tears! 


Take  them,  and  be  content : 
I  have  nothing  more  to  give  : 

My  soul  is  chilled  in  the  house  of 
Death, 
And  't  is  time  that  I  should  live. 

Take  them,  and  let  me  be: 

Lie  still  in  the  churchyard  mould, 
Nor  chase  from  my  heart  each  new 
delight 

With  the  phantom  of  the  old ! 

1855. 


SQUANDERED  LIVES 

The  fisherman  wades  in  the  surges  ; 

The  sailor  sails  over  the  sea ; 
The  soldier  steps  bravely  to  battle ; 

The  woodman  lays  axe  to  the  tree. 

They  are  each  of  the  breed  of  the 
heroes, 
The  manhood  attempered  in  strife  : 
Strong  hands,  that  go  lightly  to  la- 
bor, 
True  hearts,  that  take  comfort  in 
life. 

In  each  is  the  seed  to  replenish 
The     world     with     the    vigor    it 
needs,  — 

The  centre  of  honest  affections, 
The  impulse  to  generous  deeds. 

But  the  shark  drinks  the  blood  of  the 
fisher ; 
The  sailor  is  dropped  in  the  sea ; 
The  soldier  lies  cold  by  his  cannon ; 
The  woodman  is  crushed    by  his 
tree. 

Each  prodigal  life  that  is  wasted 
In  manly  achievement  unseen, 
But  lengthens  the  days  of  the  cow- 
ard, 
And    strengthens    the    crafty    and 
mean. 

The  blood  of  the  noblest  is  lavished 
That  the  selfish  a  profit  may  find  ; 

But    God    sees    the    lives    that    are 
squandered, 
And  we  to  His  wisdom  are  blind. 

1855. 


112 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 


A  SYMBOL 


Heavy,  and  hot,  and  gray, 
Day  following  unto  day, 
A  felon  gang,  their  blind  life  drag 
away,  — 

Blind,  vacant,  dumb,  as  Time, 
Lapsed  from  his  wonted  prime, 
Begot    them    basely    in    incestuous 
crime : 

So  little  life  there  seems 
About  the  woods  and  streams,  — 
Only  a  sleep,  perplexed  with  night- 
mare-dreams. 

The  burden  of  a  sigh 
Stifles  the  weary  sky, 
Where  smouldering  clouds  in  ashen 
masses  lie  : 

The  forests  fain  would  groan, 
But,  silenced  into  stone, 
Crouch,  in  the  dull  blue  vapors  round 
them  thrown. 

O  light,  more  drear  than  gloom ! 
Than    death    more    dead     such 

bloom : 
Yet  life  —  yet  life  —  shall  burst  this 

gathering  doom! 


Behold !  a  swift  and  silent  fire 

Yon  dull  cloud  pierces,  in  the  west, 

And  blackening,  as  with  growing  ire, 
He  lifts  his  forehead  from  his  breast. 

He  mutters  to  the  ashy  host 

That  all  around  him  sleeping  lie,  — 
Sole  chieftain  on  the  airy  coast, 

To  fight  the  battles  of  the  sky. 

He  slowly  lifts  his  weary  strength, 
His  shadow  rises  on  the  day, 


And  distant  forests  feel  at  length 
A  wind  from  landscapes  far  away. 

HI    . 

How  shall  the  cloud  unload  its  thun- 
der ? 
How  shall  its  flashes  fire  the  air  ? 
Hills  and  valleys  are  dumb  with  won- 
der : 
Lakes  look  up  with  a  leaden  stare. 

Hark!  the  lungs  of  the  striding  giant 

Bellow  an  angry  answer  back ! 
Hurling  the  hair  from  his  brows  de- 
fiant, 
Crushing  the    laggards  along    his 
track. 

Now  his  step,  like  a  battling  Titan's, 
Scales  in  flame  the  hills  of  the  sky; 

Struck    by    his    breath,    the    forest 
whitens  ; 
Fluttering  waters  feel  him  nigh  ! 

Stroke  on  stroke  of  his  thunder-ham- 
mer— 
Sheets    of    flame    from    his    anvil 
hurled  — 
Heaven's  doors  are  burst  in  the  clamor : 
He  alone  possesses  the  world ! 

IV 

Drowned  woods,  shudder  no  more : 
Vexed  lakes,  smile  as  before : 
Hills  that  vanished,  appear  again  : 
Rise  for  harvest,  prostrate  grain  ! 

Shake  thy  jewels,  twinkling  grass  : 
Blossoms,  tint  the  winds  that  pass  : 
Sun,  behold  a  world  restored  ! 
World,  again  thy  sun  is  lord ! 

Thunder-spasms  the  waking  be 
Into  Life  from  Apathy : 
Life,  not  Death,  is  in  the  gale,  — 
Let  the  coming  Doom  prevail  1 

1859. 


Thus  far  he  read  :  at  first  with  even  tone, 

Still  chanting  in  the  old,  familiar  key,  — 

That  golden  note,  whose  grand  monotony 

Is  musical  in  poets'  mouths  alone,  — 

But  broken,  as  he  read,  became  the  chime. 

To  speak,  once  more,  in  Grief's  forgotten  tongue, 

And  feel  the  hot  reflex  of  passion  flung 

Back  on  the  heart  by  every  pulse  of  rhyme 


FIRST   EVENING  113 

Wherein  it  lives  and  burns,  a  soul  might  shake 

More  calm  than  his.     With  many  a  tender  break 

Of  voice,  a  dimness  of  the  haughty  eye, 

And  pause  of  wandering  memory,  he  read ; 

While  I,  with  folded  arms  and  downcast  head, 

In  silence  heard  each  blind,  bewildered  cry. 

Thus  far  had  Ernest  read  :  but,  closing  now 

The  book,  and  lifting  up  a  calmer  brow, 
"  Forgive  me,  patient  God,  for  this! "  he  said  : 
"  And  you  forgive,  dear  friend,  and  dearest  wife, 

If  I  have  marred  an  hour  of  this  sweet  life 

With  noises  from  the  valley  of  the  Dead. 

Long,  long  ago,  the  Hand  whereat  I  railed 

In  blindness  gave  me  courage  to  subdue 

This  wild  revolt:  I  see  wherein  I  failed  : 

My  heart  was  false,  when  most  I  thought  it  true, 

My  sorrow  selfish,  when  I  thought  it  pure. 

For  those  we  lose,  if  still  their  love  endure 

Translation  to  that  other  land,  where  Love 

Breathes  the  immortal  wisdom,  ask  in  heaven 

No  greater  sacrifice  than  we  had  given 

On  earth,  our  love's  integrity  to  prove. 

If  we  are  blest  to  know  the  other  blest, 

Then  treason  lies  in  sorrow.     Vainly  said ! 

Alone  each  heart  must  cover  up  its  dead  ; 

Alone,  through  bitter  toil,  achieve  its  rest : 

Which  I  have  found  —  but  still  these  records  keep, 

Lest  I,  condemning  others,  should  forget 

My  own  rebellion.     From  these  tares  I  reap, 

In  evil  days,  a  fruitful  harvest  yet. 

"But  'tis  enough,  to-night.     Nay,  Philip,  here 
A  chapter  closes.     See !  the  moon  is  near  : 
Your  laurels  glitter  :  come,  my  darling,  sing 
The  hymn  I  wrote  on  such  a  night  as  this  !  " 
Then  Edith,  stooping  first  to  take  his  kiss, 
Drew  from  its  niche  of  woodbine  her  guitar, 
With  chords  prelusive  tuned  a  slackened  string, 
And  sang,  clear-voiced,  as  some  melodious  star 
Were  dropping  silver  sweetness  from  afar: 

God,  to  whom  we  look  up  blindly, 
Look  Thou  down  upon  us  kindly  : 
We  have  sinned,  but  not  designedly. 

If  our  faith  in  Thee  was  shaken, 
Pardon  Thou  our  hearts  mistaken, 
Our  obedience  reawaken. 

We  are  sinful,  Thou  art  holy  : 
Thou  art  mighty,  we  are  lowly  : 
Let  us  reach  Thee,  climbing  slowly. 

Our  ingratitude  confessing, 

On  Thy  mercy  still  transgressing, 

Thou  dost  punish  us  with  blessing  ! 


ii4  THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 


SECOND  EVENING 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
Which  swifter,  sweeter  than  the  first  had  fled : 
My  heart's  delicious  tumult  passed  away 
And  left  a  sober  happiness  instead. 
For  Ernest's  voice  was  ever  in  mine  ear, 
His  presence  mingled  as  of  old  with  mine, 
But  stronger,  manlier,  brighter,  more  divine 
Its  effluence  now  :  within  his  starry  sphere 
Of  love  new -risen  my  nature  too  was  drawn, 
And  warmed  with  rosy  flushes  of  the  dawn. 

All  day  we  drove  about  the  lovely  vales, 

Under  the  hill-side  farms,  through  summer  woods, 

The  land  of  mingled  homes  and  solitudes 

That  Ernest  loved.     We  told  the  dear  old  tales 

Of  childhood,  music  new  to  Edith's  ear, 

Sang  olden  songs,  lived  old  adventures  o'er, 

And,  when  the  hours  brought  need  of  other  cheer, 

Spread  on  the  ferny  rocks  a  tempting  store 

Of  country  dainties.     'T  was  our  favorite  dell, 

Cut  by  the  trout-stream  through  a  wooded  ridge  : 

Above,  the  highway  on  a  mossy  bridge 

Strode  o'er  it,  and  below,  the  water  fell 

Through  hornblende  bowlders,  where  the  dircus  flung 

His  pliant  rods,  the  berried  spice-wood  grew, 

And  tulip-trees  and  smooth  magnolias  hung 

A  million  leaves  between  us  and  the  blue. 

The  silver  water-dust  in  puffs  arose 

And  turned  to  dust  of  jewels  in  the  sun, 

And  like  a  canon,  in  its  close  begun 

Afresh,  the  stream's  perpetual  lullaby 

Sang  down  the  dell,  and  deepened  its  repose. 

Here,  till  the  western  hours  had  left  the  sky, 

We  sat :  then  homeward  loitered  through  the  dusk 

Of  chestnut  woods,  along  the  meadow-side, 

And  lost  in  lanes  that  breathed  ambrosial  musk 

Of  wild-grape  blossoms  :  and  the  twilight  died. 

Long  after  every  star  came  out,  we  paced 
The  terrace,  still  discoursing  on  the  themes 
The  day  had  started,  intermixed  with  dreams 
Born  of  the  summer  night.     Then,  golden-faced, 
Behind  her  daybreak  of  auroral  gleams, 
The  moon  arose  :  the  bosom  of  the  lawn 
Whitened  beneath  her  silent  snow  of  light, 
Save  where  the  trees  made  isles  of  mystic  night, 
Dark  blots  against  the  rising  splendor  drawn, 
And  where  the  eastern  wall  of  woodland  towered, 
Blue  darkness,  filled  with  undistinguished  shapes  : 
But  elsewhere,  over  all  the  landscape  showered  — 
A  silver  drizzle  on  the  distant  capes 
Of  hills  —  the  glory  of  the  moon.     We  sought, 
Drawn  thither  by  the  same  unspoken  thought, 


SECOND   EVENING 


ii5 


The  mound,  where  now  the  leaves  of  laurel  clashed 
Their  dagger-points  of  light,  around  the  bower, 
And  through  the  nets  of  leaf  and  elfin  flower. 
Cold  fire,  the  sprinkled  drops  of  moonshine  flashed. 

Erelong  in  Ernest's  hand  the  volume  lay, 
(I  did  not  need  a  second  time  to  ask,) 
And  he  resumed  the  intermitted  task. 
This  night,  dear  Philip,  is  the  Poet's  day," 
He  said  :  "the  world  is  one  confessional : 
Our  sacred  memories  as  freely  fall 
As  leaves  from  o'er-ripe  blossoms:  we  betray 
Ourselves  to  Nature,  who  the  tale  can  win 
We  shrink  from  uttering  in  the  daylight's  din. 
So,  Friend,  come  back  with  me  a  little  way 
Along  the  years,  and  in  these  records  find 
The  sole  inscriptions  they  have  left  behind." 


ATONEMENT 

If  thou  hadst  died  at  midnight, 
With  a  lamp  beside  thy  bed  ; 

The  beauty  of  sleep  exchanging 
For  the  beauty  of  the  dead  : 

When  the  bird  of  heaven  had  called 
thee, 

And  the  time  had  come  to  go, 
And  the  northern  lights  were  dancing 

On  the  dim  December  snow,  — 

If  thou  hadst  died  at  midnight, 
I  had  ceased  to  bid  thee  stay, 

Hearing  the  feet  of  the  Father 
Leading  His  child  away. 

I  had  knelt,  in  the  awful  Presence, 
And  covered  my  guilty  head, 

And  received  His  absolution 
For  my  sins  toward  the  dead. 

But  the  cruel  sun  was  shining 
In  the  cold  and  windy  sky, 

And  Life,  with  his  mocking  voices, 
Looked  in  to  see  thee  die. 

God  came  and  went  unheeded ; 

No  tear  repentant  shone; 
And  he  took  the  heart  from  my  bosom, 

And  left  in  its  place  a  stone. 

Each  trivial  promise  broken, 

Each  tender  word  unsaid, 
Must  be  evermore  unspoken,  — 

Unpardoned  by  the  dead. 


Unpardoned?    No:  the  struggle 
Of  years  was  not  in  vain,  — 

The  patience  that  wearies  passion, 
And  the  prayers  that  conquer  pain. 

This  tardy  resignation 

May  be  the  blessed  sign 
Of  pardon  and  atonement, 

Thy  spirit  sends  to  mine. 

Now  first  I  dare  remember 
That  day  of  death  and  woe  : 

Within,  the  dreadful  silence, 
Without,  the  sun  and  snow  ! 


I860. 


DECEMBER 


The  beech  is  bare,  and  bare  the  ash, 
The  thickets  white  below  ; 

The  fir-tree  scowls  with  hoar  mous- 
tache, 
He  cannot  sing  for  snow. 

The  body-guard  of  veteran  pines, 

A  grim  battalion,  stands  ; 
They  ground  their  arms,  in  ordered 
lines, 

For  Winter  so  commands. 

The  waves  are  dumb  along  the  shore, 

The  river's  pulse  is  still ; 
The  north- wind's  bugle  blows  no  more 

Reveille  from  the  hill. 

The  rustling  sift  of  falling  snow, 
The  muffled  crush  of  leaves, 


n6 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 


These  are  the  sounds  suppressed,  that 
show 
How  much  the  forest  grieves ; 

But,  as  the  blind  and  vacant  Day 

Crawls  to  his  ashy  bed, 
I  hear  dull  echoes  far  away, 

Like  drums  above  the  dead. 

Sigh    with    me,     Pine    that    never 
changed ! 

Thou  wear'st  the  Summer's  hue  ; 
Her  other  loves  are  all  estranged, 

But  thou  and  I  are  true ! 

1856. 

SYLVAN  SPIRITS 

The  gray   stems  rise,   the  branches 

braid 
A  covering  of  deepest  shade. 
Beneath  these  old,  inviolate  trees 
There    comes    no    stealthy,    sliding 

breeze, 
To  overhear  their  mysteries. 

Steeped    in   the   fragrant   breath   of 

leaves, 
My  heart  a  hermit  peace  receives  : 
The  sombre  forest  thrusts  a  screen 
My  refuge  and  the  world  between, 
And  beds  me  in  its  balmy  green. 

No  fret  of  life  may  here  intrude, 
To  vex  the  sylvan  solitude. 
Pure  spirits  of  the  earth  and  air, 
From  hollow  trunk  and  bosky  lair 
Come  forth,   and    hear  your    lover's 
prayer  ! 

Come,  Druid  soul  of  ancient  oak, 
Thou,    too,    hast    felt    the    thunder- 
stroke ; 
Come,  Hamadryad  of  the  beech, 
Nymph  of  the  burning  maple,  teach 
My  heart  the  solace  of  your  speech  ! 

Alas !  the  sylvan  ghosts  preserve 
The  natures  of  the  race  they  serve. 
Not  only  Dryads,  chaste  and  shy, 
But  piping  Fauns,  come  dancing  nigh, 
And  Satyrs  of  the  shaggy  thigh. 

Across  the  calm,  the  holy  hush, 

And  shadowed  air,  there  darts  a  flush 

Of  riot,  from  the  lawless  brood, 


And  rebel  voices  in  my  blood 
Salute  these  orgies  of  the  wood. 

Not  sacred  thoughts  alone  engage 

The  saint  in  silent  hermitage  : 

The    soul    within    him    heavenward 

strives, 
Yet  strong,  as  in  profaner  lives, 
The  giant  of  the  flesh  survives. 

From  Nature,  as  from  human  haunts, 
That  giant  draws  his  sustenance. 
By  her  own  elves,  in  woodlands  wild 
She  sees  her  robes  of  prayer  defiled : 
She  is  not  purer  than  her  child. 


THE  LOST  MAY 

When    May,    with    cowslip-braided 
locks, 
Walks  through  the  land  in  green 
attire, 
And  burns  in  meadow-grass  the  phlox 
His  torch  of  purple  fire  : 

When   buds   have    burst    the   silver 
sheath, 
And  shifting  pink,  and  gray,  and 
gold 
Steal  o'er  the  woods,  while  fair  be- 
neath 
The  bloomy  vales  unfold  : 

When,   emerald-bright,   the   hemlock 
stands 
New-feathered,    needled    new    the 
pine  ; 
And,  exiles  from  the  orient  lands, 
The  turbaned  tulips  shine  : 

When  wild  azaleas  deck  the  knoll, 
And  cinque-foil  stars  the  fields  of 
home, 
And  winds,  that  take  the  white-weed, 
roll 
The  meadows  into  foam : 

Then  from  the  jubilee  I  turn 

To  other  Mays  that  I  have  seen, 
Where    more    resplendent    blossoms 
burn, 
And  statelier  woods  are  green ;  — 

Mays,  when  my  heart  expanded  first, 
A  honeyed  blossom,  fresh  with  dew ; 


SECOND   EVENING 


117 


And  one  sweet  wind  of  heaven  dis- 
persed 
The  only  clouds  I  knew. 

For  she,  whose  softly -murmured  name 
The  music  of  the  month  expressed, 
Walked  by  my  side,  in  holy  shame 
Of  girlish  love  confessed. 

The  budding  chestnuts  overhead, 
Their    sprinkled    shadows    in    the 

lane,  — 
Blue    flowers    along    the    brooklet's 

bed,— 


The  old,  old  tale  of  girl  and  boy, 

Repeated  ever,  never  old  : 
To  each  in  turn  the  gates  of  joy, 
The  gates  of  heaven  unfold. 

And  when  the  punctual  May  arrives, 
With  cowslip-garland  on  her  brow, 
We  know  what  once  she  gave  our  lives 
And  cannot  give  us  now. 

I860. 


CHURCHYARD  ROSES 

The  woodlands  wore  a  gloomy  green, 
The  tawny  stubble  clad  the  hill, 

And  August  hung  her  smoky  screen 
Above  the  valleys,  hot  and  still. 

No  life  was  in  the  fields  that  day ; 

My  steps  were   safe  from  curious 
eyes: 
I  wandered  where,  in  churchyard  clay, 

The  dust  of  love  and  beauty  lies. 

Around  me  thrust  the  nameless  graves 
Their  fatal  ridges,  side  by  side, 

So  green,   they  seemed   but    grassy 
waves, 
Yet  quiet  as  the  dead  they  hide. 

And  o'er  each  pillow  of  repose 
Some  innocent  memento  grew, 

Of  pansy,  pink,  or  lowly  rose, 
Or  hyssop,  lavender,  and  rue. 

What  flower  is  hers,  the  maiden  bride  ? 
What  sacred  plant  protects  her  bed  ? 
saw,  the  greenest  mound  beside, 
A  rose  of  dark  and  lurid  red. 


An  eye  of  fierce  demoniac  stain, 
It  mocked  my  calm  and  chastened 
grief  ; 
I  tore  it,  stung  with  sudden  pain, 
And  stamped  in  earth  each  bloody 
leaf. 

And  down  upon  that  trampled  grave 
In  recklessness  my  body  cast : 

"  Give  back  the  life  I  could  not  save, 
Or  give  deliverance  from  the  Past ! " 

But  something  gently  touched  my 
cheek, 

Caressing  while  its  touch  reproved  : 
A  rose,  all  white  and  snowy -meek, 

It  grew  upon  the  dust  I  loved ! 

A  breeze  the  holy  blossom  pressed 
Upon  my  lips :  Dear  Saint,  I  cried, 

Still  blooms  the  white  rose,  in  my 
breast, 
Of  Love,  that  Death  has  sanctified  1 

I860. 


AUTUMNAL  DREAMS 


When  the  maple  turns  to  crimson 
And  the  sassafras  to  gold  ; 

When  the  gentian 's  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  aster  on  the  wold  ; 

When  the  noon  is  lapped  in  vapor, 
And  the  night  is  frosty-cold  : 


When  the  chestnut-burs  are  opened, 
And  the  acorns  drop  like  hail, 

And  the  drowsy  air  is  startled 

With  the  thumping  of  the  flail,  — 

With  the  drumming  of  the  partridge 
And  the  whistle  of  the  quail : 


Through  the  rustling  woods  I  wander, 
Through  the  jewels  of  the  year, 

From  the  yellow  uplands  calling, 
Seeking  her  that  still  is  dear  : 

She  is  near  me  in  the  autumn, 
She,  the  beautiful,  is  near. 


Through  the  smoke  of  burning  sum- 
mer, 
When  the  weary  winds  are  still, 


n8 


THE  POET'S  JOURNAL 


I  can  see  her  in  the  valley, 
I  can  hear  her  on  the  hill,  — 

In  the  splendor  of  the  woodlands, 
In  the  whisper  of  the  rill. 


For  the  shores  of  Earth  and  Heaven 
Meet,  and  mingle  in  the  blue  : 

She  can  wander  down  the  glory 
To  the  places  that  she  knew, 

Where  the  happy  lovers  wandered 
In  the  days  when  life  was  true. 


So  I  think,  when  days  are  sweetest, 
And  the  world  is  wholly  fair, 

She  may  sometime  steal  upon  me 
Through  the  dimness  of  the  air, 

With  the  cross  upon  her  bosom 
And  the  amaranth  in  her  hair. 

VII 

Once  to  meet  her,  ah !  to  meet  her, 
And  to  hold  her  gently  fast 

Till  I  blessed  her,  till  she  blessed  me,  — 
That  were  happiness,  at  last : 

That  were  bliss  beyond  our  meetings 
In  the  autumns  of  the  Past ! 


IN  WINTER 

The  valley  stream  is  frozen, 
The  hills  are  cold  and  bare, 

And  the  wild  white  bees  of  winter 
Swarm  in  the  darkened  air. 

I  look  on  the  naked  forest : 
Was  it  ever  green  in  June  ? 

Did  it  burn  with  gold  and  crimson 
In  the  dim  autumnal  noon  ? 

I  look  on  the  barren  meadow: 
Was  it  ever  heaped  with  hay  ? 

Did  it  hide  the  grassy  cottage 
Where  the  skylark's  children  lay  ? 

I  look  on  the  desolate  garden : 
Is  it  true  the  rose  was  there  ? 

And  the  woodbine's  musky  blossoms, 
And  the  hyacinth's  purple  hair  ? 

I  look  on  my  heart,  and  marvel 
If  Love  were  ever  its  own,  — 

If  the  spring  of  promise  brightened, 
And  the  summer  of  passion  shone  ? 


Is  the  stem  of  bliss  but  withered, 
And  the  root  survives  the  blast  ? 

Are  the  seeds  of  the  Future  sleeping 
Under  the  leaves  of  the  Past  ? 

Ah,  yes !  for  a  thousand  Aprils 
The  frozen  germs  shall  grow, 

And  the  dews  of  a  thousand  summers 
Wait  in  the  womb  of  the  snow ! 


YOUNG  LOVE 

We  are  not  old,  we  are  not  cold, 
Our   hearts  are  warm  and  tender 
yet; 
Our  arms  are  eager  to  enfold 
More  bounteous  love  than  we  have 
met. 

Still  many  another  heart  lays  bare 
Its  secret  chamber  to  our  eyes, 

Though  dim  with  passion's  lurid  air, 
Or  pure  as  morns  of  Paradise. 

They  give  the  love,  whose  glory  lifts 
Desire  beyond  the  realm  of  sense ; 

They  make  us  rich  with  lavish  gifts, 
The  wealth  of  noble  confidence. 

We  must  be  happy,  must  be  proud, 
So  crowned  with  human  trust  and 
truth ; 

But  ah  !  the  love  that  first  we  vowed, 
The  dear  religion  of  our  youth  ! 

Voluptuous  bloom  and  fragrance  rare 
The  summer  to  its  rose  may  bring ; 

Far  sweeter  to  the  wooing  air 
The  hidden  violet  of  the  spring. 

Still,  still  that  lovely  ghost  appears, 
Too  fair,  too  pure,  to  bid  depart ; 

No  riper  love  of  later  years 
Can  steal  its  beauty  from  the  heart. 

0  splendid  sun  that  shone  above  ! 

O  green  magnificence  of  Earth  1 
Born  once  into  that  land  of  love, 

No  life  can  know  a  second  birth. 

Dear,  boyish  heart,  that  trembled  so 

With  bashful  fear  and  fond  unrests- 
More  frightened  than  a  dove,  to  know 
Another  bird  within  its  nest ! 


SECOND   EVENING 


119 


Sharp  thrills  of  doubt,  wild  hopes  that 
came, 
Fond  words  addressed,  —  each  word 
a  pang : 
Then  —  hearts,  baptized  in  heavenly 
flame, 
How  like  the  morning  stars  ye  sang  ! 

Love  bound  ye  with  his  holiest  link, 
The  faith  in  each  that  ask  no  more, 

And  led  ye  from  the  sacred  brink 
Of  mysteries  he  held  in  store. 

Love  led  ye,  children,  from  the  bowers 
Where  Strength  and  Beauty  find  his 
crown  : 
Ye  were  not  ripe  for  mortal  flowers ; 
God's  angel  brought  an  amaranth 
down. 

Our  eyes  are  dim  with  fruitless  tears, 
Our  eyes  are  dim,  our  hearts  are  sore: 

That  lost  religion  of  our  years 
Comes  never,  never,  nevermore  ! 

1856. 

THE   CHAPEL 

Like  one  who  leaves  the  trampled 
street 
For  some  cathedral,  cool  and  dim, 
Where  he  can  hear  in  music  beat 
The  heart  of  prayer,  that  beats  for 
him; 

And  sees  the  common  light  of  day, 
Through    painted   panes,    transfig- 
ured, shine, 

And  casts  his  human  woes  away, 
In  presence  of  the  Woe  Divine : 

So  I,  from  life's  tormenting  themes, 
Turn  where  the  silent  chapel  lies, 

Whose  windows  burn  with  vanished 
dreams, 
Whose  altar-lights  are  memories. 

There,  watched  by  pitying  cherubim, 
In  sacred  hush,  I  rest  awhile, 

Till  solemn  sounds  of  harp  and  hymn 
Begin  to  sweep  the  haimted  aisle : 

A  hymn  that  once  but  breathed  com- 
plaint, 

And  breathes  but  resignation  now, 
Since  God  has  heard  the  pleading  saint, 

And  laid  His  hand  upon  my  brow. 


Restored  and  comforted,  I  go 
To  grapple  with  my  tasks  again  ; 

Through    silent    worship    taught    to 
know 
The  blessed  peace  that  follows  pain. 

I860. 


IF  LOVE  SHOULD  COME  AGAIN 

If  Love  should  come  again,  I  ask  my 
heart 
In  tender  tremors,  not  unmixed  with 
pain, 
Couldst  thou  be  calm,  nor  feel  thine 
ancient  smart, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

Couldst    thou    unbar   the    chambers 
where  his  nest 
So  long  was  made,  and  made,  alas, 
in  vain, 
Nor  with  embarrassed  welcome  chill 
thy  guest, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

Would  Love  his  ruined  quarters  recog- 
nize, 
Where  shrouded  pictures  of  the  Past 
remain, 
And  gently  turn  them  with  forgiving 
eyes, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

Would  bliss,  in  milder  type,  spring  up 
anew, 
As  silent  craters  with  the  scarlet 
stain 
Of  flowers  repeat  the  lava's  ancient 
hue, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

Would  Fate,   relenting,  sheathe    the 
cruel  blade 
Whereby  the  angel  of  thy  youth 
was  slain 
That  thou  might' st  all  possesshim,  un- 
afraid, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

In  vain  I  ask :  my  heart  makes  no  reply, 
But  echoes  evermore  the  sweet  re- 
frain ; 
Till,  trembling  lest  it  seem  a  wish,  I 
sigh: 
If  Love  should  come  again. 


i2o  THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 

"  The  darkness  and  the  twilight  have  an  end," 
Said  Ernest,  as  he  laid  the  book  aside, 
And,  with  a  tenderness  he  could  not  hide, 
Smiled,  seeing  in  the  eyes  of  wife  and  friend 
The  same  soft  dew  that  made  his  own  so  dim. 
My  heart  was  strangely  moved,  but  not  for  him. 
The  holy  night,  the  stars  that  twinkled  faint, 
Serfs  of  the  regnant  moon,  the  slumbering  trees 
And  silvery  hills,  recalled  fair  memories 
Of  her  I  knew,  his  life's  translated  saint, 
Who  seemed  too  sacred  now,  too  far  removed, 
To  be  by  him  lamented  or  beloved. 
And  yet  she  stood,  I  knew,  by  Ernest's  side 
Invisible,  a  glory  in  the  heart, 
A  light  of  peace,  the  inner  counterpart 
Of  that  which  round  us  poured  its  radiant  tide. 

We  sat  in  silence,  till  a  wind,  astray 

From  some  uneasy  planet,  shook  the  vines 

And  sprinkled  us  with  snow  of  eglantines. 

The  laurels  rustled  as  it  passed  away, 

And,  million-tongued,  the  woodland  whisper  crept 

Of  leaves  that  turned  in  sleep,  from  tree  to  tree 

All  down  the  lawn,  and  once  again  they  slept. 

Then  Edith  from  her  tender  fantasy 

Awoke,  yet  still  her  pensive  posture  kept, 

Her  white  hands  motionless  upon  her  knee, 

Her  eyes  upon  a  star  that  sparkled  through 

The  mesh  of  leaves,  and  hummed  a  wandering  air, 

(As  if  the  music  of  her  thoughts  it  were,) 

Low,  sweet,  and  sad,  until  to  words  it  grew 

That  made  it  sweeter,  —  words  that  Ernest  knew  : 

Love,  I  follow,  follow  thee, 

Wipe  thine  eyes  and  thou  shalt  see  : 

Sorrow  makes  thee  blind  to  me. 

I  am  with  thee,  Messing,  blest ; 
Let  thy  doubts  be  laid  to  rest : 
Bise,  and  take  me  to  thy  breast ! 

In  thy  bliss  my  steps  behold : 
Stretch  thine  arms  and  bliss  enfold : 
'Tis  thy  sorrow  makes  me  cold. 

Life  is  good,  and  life  is  fair, 
Love  awaits  thee  everywhere : 
Love  !  is  Love's  immortal  prayer. 

Live  for  love,  and  thou  shalt  be. 
Loving  others,  true  to  me  : 
Love,  I  follow,  follow  thee  ! 

Thus  Edith  sang :  the  stars  heard,  and  the  night, 

The  happy  spirits,  leaning  from  the  wall 

Of  Heaven,  the  saints,  and  God  above  them  all, 

Heard  what  she  sang.     She  ceased  r  her  brow  was  bright 


THIRD    EVENING  121 

With  other  splendor  than  the  moon's  :  she  rose, 
Gave  each  a  hand,  and  silently  we  trod 
The  dry,  white  gravel  and  the  dewy  sod, 
And  silently  we  parted  for  repose. 


THIRD  EVENING 

For  days  before,  the  wild-dove  cooed  for  rain. 
The  sky  had  been  too  bright,  the  world  too  fair. 
We  knew  such  loveliness  could  not  remain : 
We  heard  its  ruin  by  the  nattering  air 
Foretold,  that  o'er  the  field  so  sweetly  blew, 
Yet  came,  at  night,  a  banshee,  moaning  through 
The  chimney's  throat,  and  at  the  window  wailed  : 
We  heard  the  tree-toad  trill  his  piercing  note  : 
The  sound  seemed  near  us,  when,  on  farms  remote, 
The  supper-horn  the  scattered  workmen  hailed  : 
Above  the  roof  the  eastward -pointing  vane 
Stood  fixed  :  and  still  the  wild-dove  cooed  for  rain. 

So,  when  the  morning  came,  and  found  no  fire 

Upon  her  hearth,  and  wrapped  her  shivering  form 

In  cloud,  and  rising  winds  in  many  a  gyre 

Of  dust  foreran  the  footsteps  of  the  storm, 

And  woods  grew  dark,  and  flowery  meadows  chill, 

And  gray  annihilation  smote  the  hill, 

I  said  to  Ernest :   "*T  was  my  plan,  you  see : 

Two  days  to  Nature,  and  the  third  to  me. 

For  you  must  stay,  perforce  :  the  day  is  doomed. 

No  visitors  shall  yonder  valley  find, 

Except  the  spirits  of  the  rain  and  wind  : 

Here  you  must  bide,  my  friends,  with  me  entombed 

In  this  dim  crypt,  where  shelved  around  us  lie 

The  mummied  authors."     "  Place  me,  when  I  die," 

Laughed  Ernest,  "in  as  fair  a  catacomb, 

I  shall  not  call  posterity  unjust, 

That  leaves  my  bones  in  Shakespeare's,  Goethe's  home, 

Like  king  and  beggar  mixed  in  Memphian  dust. 

But  you  are  right  :  this  day  we  well  may  give 

To  you,  dear  Philip,  and  to  those  who  stand 

Protecting  Nature  with  a  jealous  hand, 

At  once  her  subjects  and  her  haughty  lords  ; 

Since,  in  the  breath  of  their  immortal  words 

Alone,  she  first  begins  to  speak  and  live." 

I  know  not,  if  that  day  of  dreary  rain 

Was  not  the  happiest  of  the  happy  three. 

For  Nature  gives,  but  takes  away  again : 

Sound,  odor,  color  —  blossom,  cloud,  and  tree 

Divide  and  scatter  in  a  thousand  rays 

Our  individual  being  :  but,  in  days 

Of  gloom,  the  wandering  senses  crowding  come 

To  the  close  circle  of  the  heart.     So  we, 

Cosily  nestled  in  the  library, 

Enjoyed  each  other  and  the  warmth  of  home. 


122  THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 

Each  window  was  a  picture  of  the  rain : 
Blown  by  the  wind,  tormented,  wet,  and  gray, 
Losing  itself  in  cloud,  the  landscape  lay  ; 
Or  wavered,  blurred,  behind  the  streaming  pane ; 
Or,  with  a  sudden  struggle,  shook  away 
Its  load,  and  like  a  foundering  ship  arose 
Distinct  and  dark  above  the  driving  spray, 
Until  a  fiercer  onset  came,  to  close 
The  hopeless  day.     The  roses  writhed  about 
Their  stakes,  the  tall  laburnums  to  and  fro 
Rocked  in  the  gusts,  the  flowers  were  beaten  low, 
And  from  his  pygmy  house  the  wren  looked  out 
With  dripping  bill :  each  living  creature  fled, 
To  seek  some  sheltering  cover  for  its  head  : 
Yet  colder,  drearier,  wilder  as  it  blew 
We  drew  the  closer,  and  the  happier  grew. 

She  with  her  needle,  he  with  pipe  and  book, 
My  guests  contented  sat :  my  cheerful  dame, 
Intent  on  household  duties,  went  and  came, 
And  I  unto  my  childless  bosom  took 
The  little  two-year  Arthur,  Ernest's  child, 
A  darling  boy,  to  both  his  parents  true,  — 
With  father's  brow,  and  mother's  eyes  of  blue, 
And  the  same  dimpled  beauty  when  he  smiled. 
Ah  me !  the  father's  heart  within  me  woke  : 
The  child  that  never  was,  I  seemed  to  hold  : 
The  withered  tenderness  that  bloomed  of  old 
In  vain,  revived  when  little  Arthur  spoke 
Of  "  Papa  Philip  !  "  and  his  balmy  kiss 
Renewed  lost  yearnings  for  a  father's  bliss. 
And  something  glittered  in  the  boy's  bright  hair : 
I  kissed  him  back,  but  turned  away  my  head 
To  hide  the  pang  I  would  not  have  thee  share, 
Dear  wife !  from  whom  the  dearest  promise  fled. 
God  cannot  chide  so  sacred  a  despair, 
But  still  I  dream  that  somewhere  there  must  be 
The  spirit  of  a  child  that  waits  for  me. 

And  evening  fell,  and  Arthur,  rosy-limbed 

And  snowy-gowned,  in  human  beauty  sweet, 

Came  pattering  up  with  little  naked  feet 

To  kiss  the  good-night  cup,  that  overbrimmed 

With  love  two  fathers  and  two  mothers  gave. 

The  steady  rain  against  the  windows  drave, 

And  round  the  house  the  noises  of  the  night 

Mixed  in  a  lulling  music  :  dry  old  wood 

Burned  on  the  hearth  in  leaps  of  ruddy  light, 

And  on  the  table  purple  beakers  stood 

Of  harmless  wine,  from  grapes  that  ripened  on 

The  sunniest  hillside  of  the  smooth  G-aronne. 

When  Arthur  slept,  and  doors  were  closed,  and  we 

Sat  folded  in  a  sweeter  privacy 

Than  even  the  secret-loving  moon  bestows, 

Spoke  Ernest :  "  Edith,  shall  I  read  the  rest  ?  " 

She,  while  the  spirit  of  a  happy  rose 


THIRD   EVENING 


123 


Visited  her  cheeks,  consenting  smiled,  and  pressed 

The  hand  he  gave.     "  With  what  I  now  shall  read," 

He  added,  ' '  Philip,  you  must  he  content. 

No  further  runs  my  journal,  nor,  indeed, 

Beyond  this  chapter  is  there  further  need ; 

Because  the  gift  of  Song  was  chiefly  lent 

To  give  consoling  music  for  the  joys 

We  lack,  and  not  for  those  which  we  possess : 

I  now  no  longer  need  that  gift,  to  bless 

My  heart,  — your  heart,  my  Edith,  and  your  boy's ! 

Therewith  he  read  :  the  fingers  of  the  rain 
In  light  staccatos  on  the  window  played, 
Mixed  with  the  flame's  contented  hum,  and  made 
Low  harmonies  to  suit  the  varied  strain. 


THE  RETURN  OF  SPRING 

Have  I  passed  through  Death's  uncon- 
scious birth, 

In  a  dream  the  midnight  bare  ? 
I  look  on  another  and  fairer  Earth : 

I  breathe  a  wondrous  air ! 

A  spirit  of  beauty  walks  the  hills, 

A  spirit  of  love  the  plain  ; 
The  shadows  are  bright,  and  the  sun- 
shine fills 

The  air  with  a  diamond  rain  ! 

Before  my  vision  the  glories  swim, 
To  the  dance  of  a  tune  unheard  : 

Is  an  angel  singing  where  woods  are 
dim, 
Or  is  it  an  amorous  bird  ? 

Is  it  a  spike  of  azure  flowers, 
Deep  in  the  meadows  seen, 

Or  is  it  the  peacock's  neck,  that  tow- 
ers 
Out  of  the  spangled  green  ? 

Is  a  white  dove  glancing  across  the 
blue, 
Or  an  opal  taking  wing  ? 
For  my  soul  is  dazzled  through  and 
through, 
With  the  splendor  of  the  Spring. 

Is  it  she  that  shines,  as  never  before, 
The  tremulous  hills  above,  — 

Or  the  heart  within  me,  awake  once 
more 
To  the  dawning  light  of  love  ? 


MORNING 

Along  the  east,  where  late  the  dark 
impended, 

A  dusky  gleam  is  born : 
The  watches  of  the  night  are  ended, 

And  heaven  foretells  the  morn ! 

The  hills  of  home,  no  longer  hurled 
together, 
In  one  wide  blotch  of  night, 
Lift  up  their  heads    through  misty 
ether, 
Distinct  in  rising  light. 

Then,  after  pangs  of  darkness  slowly 
dying, 

O'er  the  delivered  world 
Comes  Morn,  with  every  banner  flying 

And  every  sail  unfurled ! 

So  long  the  night,  so  chill,  so  blank 
and  dreary, 

I  thought  the  sun  was  dead  ; 
But  yonder  burn  his  beacons  cheery 

On  peaks  of  cloudy  red : 

And  yonder  fly  his  scattered  golden 
arrows, 
And  smite  the  hills  with  day, 
While  Night  her  vain  dominion  nar- 
rows 
And  westward  wheels  away. 

A  sweeter  air  revives  the  new  crea- 
tion, 

The  dews  are  tears  of  bliss, 
And  Earth,  in  amorous  palpitation, 

Receives  her  bridegroom's  kiss. 


124 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 


Bathed  in  the  morning,  let  my  heart 
surrender 
The  doubts  that  darkness  gave, 
And  rise  to  meet  the  advancing  splen- 
dor— 
O  Night !  no  more  thy  slave. 

I  breathe  at  last,  thy  gloomy  reign 
forgetting, 
Thy  weary  watches  done, 
Thy  last    pale  star  behind  me  set- 
ting, 
The  freedom  of  the  sun ! 

I860. 


THE  VISION 


She  came,  long  absent  from  my  side, 
And  absent  from  my  dreams,  she 
came, 

The  earthly  and  the  heavenly  bride, 

In  maiden  beauty  glorified : 

She  looked  upon  me,  angel-eyed  : 
She  called  me  by  my  name. 


But  I,  whose  heart  to  meet  her  sprang 
And  shook    the    fragile    house  of 
dreams, 
Stood,  smitten  with  a  guilty  pang: 
In  other  groves  and  temples  rang 
The  songs  that  once  for  her  I  sang, 
By  woods  and  faery  streams. 

in 

Her  eyes  had  power  to  lift  my  head, 
And,  timorous  as  a  truant  child, 

I  met  the  sacred  light  they  shed, 

The  light  of  heaven  around  her  spread ; 

She  read  my  face ;  no  word  she  said : 
I  only  saw  she  smiled. 


"  Canst  thou  forgive  me,  Angel  mine," 
I  cried  ;  ' '  that  Love  at  last  beguiled 

My  heart  to  build  a  second  shrine  ? 

See,  still  I  kneel  and  weep  at  thine, 

But  I  am  human,  thou  divine!  " 
Still  silently  she  smiled. 


"  Dost  undivided  worship  claim, 

To  keep  thine  altar  undefiled  ? 

Or  must  I  bear  thy  tender  blame, 


And  in  thy  pardon  feel  my  shame, 

Whene'er  I  breathe  another  name  1 

She  looked  at  me,  and  smiled. 


"Speak,  speak!"  and  then  my  tears 
came  fast, 
My  troubled  heart  with  doubt  grew 
wild : 
"Will 't  vex  the  love,  which  still  thou 

hast, 
To  know  that  I  have  peace  at  last  ?  " 
And  from  my  dream  the  vision  passed, 
And  still,  in  passing,  smiled. 

I860. 


LOVE  RETURNED 


He  was  a  boy  when  first  we  met ; 

His  eyes  were  mixed  of  dew  and  fire, 
And  on  his  candid  brow  was  set 

The  sweetness  of  a  chaste  desire. 
But  in  his  veins  the  pulses  beat 

Of  passion,  waiting  for  its  wing, 
As  ardent  veins  of  summer  heat 

Throb    through    the    innocence  of 
spring. 

ii 

As  manhood  came,  his  stature  grew, 

And  fiercer  burned  his  restless  eyes, 
Until  I  trembled,  as  he  drew 

From  wedded  hearts  their  young 
disguise. 
Like  wind -fed  flame  his  ardor  rose, 

And  brought,  like  flame,  a  stormy 
rain: 
In  tumult,  sweeter  than  repose, 

He  tossed  the  souls  of  joy  and  pain. 

in 

So  many  years  of  absence  change ! 

I  knew  him  not  when  he  returned  : 
His   step  was  slow,   his   brow  was 
strange, 

His  quiet  eye  no  longer  burned. 
When  at  my  heart  I  heard  his  knock, 

No  voice  within  his  right  confessed : 
I  could  not  venture  to  unlock 

Its  chambers  to  an  alien  guest. 

IV 

Then,  at  the  threshold,  spent  and  worn 
With  fruitless  travel,  down  he  lay  : 


THIRD    EVENING 


J25 


And  I  beheld  the  gleams  of  morn 
On  his  reviving  beauty  play. 

I  knelt,  and  kissed  his  holy  lips, 
I  washed  his  feet  with  pious  care  ; 

And  from  my  life  the  long  eclipse 
Drew  off,  and  left  his  sunshine  there. 


He    burns    no    more  with    youthful 
fire  ; 

He  melts  no  more  in  foolish  tears; 
Serene  and  sweet,  his  eyes  inspire 

The  steady  faith  of  balanced  years. 
His  folded  wings  no  longer  thrill, 

But    in    some    peaceful    flight    of 
prayer : 
He  nestles  in  my  heart  so  still, 

I  scarcely  feel  his  presence  there. 


O  Love,  that  stern  probation  o'er, 

Thy  calmer  blessing  is  secure  ! 
Thy    beauteous   feet   shall    stray  no 
more, 

Thy  peace  and  patience   shall   en- 
dure ! 
The  lightest  wind  deflowers  the  rose, 

The  rainbow  with  the  sun  departs, 
But  thou  art  centred  in  repose, 

And  rooted  in  my  heart  of  hearts  ! 


A  WOMAN 


She    is    a    woman  :    therefore,    I    a 
man, 
In  so  much  as  I  love  her.     Could  I 
more, 

Then  I  were  more  a  man.   Our  natures 
ran 
Together,  brimming  full,  not  flood- 
ing o'er 

The  banks  of  life,  and  evermore  will 
run 

In  one  full  stream  until  our  days  are 
done. 

ii 
She  is  a  woman,  but  of  spirit  brave 
To  bear  the  loss  of  girlhood's  giddy 
dreams  ; 
The  regal  mistress,  not  the  yielding 
slave 
Of  her  ideal,  spurning  that  which 
seems 


For  that  which  is,  and,  as  her  fancies 

fall, 
Smiling  :  the  truth  of  love  outweighs 

them  all. 


She  looks  through  life,  and  with  a 

balance  just 
Weighs  men  and  things,  beholding 

as  they  are 
The  lives  of  others:  in  the  common  dust 
finds    the 

ruined  star 
Proud,  with  a  pride  all  feminine  and 

sweet, 
No  path  can  soil  the  whiteness  of  her 

feet. 


The  steady  candor  of  her  gentle  eyes 
Strikes  dead  deceit,  laughs  vanity 
away ; 
She  hath  no  room  for  petty  jealousies, 
Where  Faith  and  Love  divide  their 
tender  sway. 
Of  either  sex  she  owns  the  nobler  part : 
Man's  honest  brow  and  woman's  faith- 
ful heart. 


She  is  a  woman,  who,  if  Love  were 
guide, 
Would  climb  to  power,  or  in  obscure 
content 

Sit  down  :  accepting  fate  with  change- 
less pride  — 
A  reed  in  calm,  in  storm  a  staff  un- 
bent : 

No  pretty  plaything,  ignorant  of  life, 

But  Man's  true  mother,  and  his  equal 
wife. 

I860. 

THE  COUNT  OF   GLEICHEN 

I  read  that  story  of  the  Saxon  knight, 
Who,  leaving  spouse  and  feudal  for- 
tress, made 
The  Cross  of  Christ  his  guerdon  in  the 
fight, 
And  joined  the  last  Crusade. 

Whom,   in  the  chase  on  Damietta's 
sands 
Estrayed,  the  Saracens  in  ambush 
caught, 


126 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 


And  unto  Cairo,  to  the  Soldan's  hands, 
A  wretched  captive  brought : 

Whom  then  the  Soldan's  child,  a  dam- 
sel brave, 
Saw,    pitied,  comforted,  and  made 
him  free, 
And  with  him  flew,  herself  a  willing 
slave 
In  Love's  captivity. 

I  read  how  he  to  bless  her  love  was 
fain, 
To  whom  his  renovated  life  he  owed, 
Yet  with  a  pang  the  towers  beheld 
again 
Where  still  his  wife  abode  : 

The  wife  whom  first  he  loved  :  would 
she  not  scorn 
The  second  bride  he  could  not  choose 
but  wed, 
The  second  mother  to  his  children, 
born 
In  her  divided  bed  ? 

Lo !  at  his  castle's  foot  the  noble  dame 
With  tears  of  blessing,  holy,  unde- 
nted 
By  human  pain,  received  him  when 
he  came, 
And  kissed  the  Soldan's  child  ! 

My  tears  were  on  the  pages  as  I  read 
The  touching    close:    I  made  the 
story  mine, 
Within  whose  heart,  long  plighted  to 
the  dead, 
Love  built  his  living  shrine. 

I  too  had  dared,  a  captive  in  the  land, 
To  pay  with  love  the  love  that  broke 
my  chain : 
Would  she,  who  waited,  stretch  the 
pardoning  hand, 
When  I  returned  again  ? 

Would  she,  my  freedom  and  my  bliss 
to  know, 
With  my  disloyalty  be  reconciled, 
And  from  her  bower  in  Eden  look  be- 
low, 
And  bless  the  Soldan's  child  ? 

For  she  is  lost:   but  she,   the  later 
bride, 


Who  came  my  ruined  fortune  to 

restore, 
Back  from  the  desert  wanders  at  my 

side, 
And  leads  me  home  once  more. 

If  human  love,  she  sighs,  could  move 
a  wife 
The  holiest  sacrifice  of  love  to  make, 
Then  the  transfigured  angel  'of    thy 
life 
Is  happier  for  thy  sake ! 

I860. 

BEFORE  THE  BRIDAL 

Now  the  night  is  overpast, 
And  the  mist  is  cleared  away : 

On  my  barren  life  at  last 
Breaks  the  bright,  reluctant  day. 

Day  of  payment  for  the  wrong 
I  was  doomed  so  long  to  bear  ; 

Day  of  promise,  day  of  song, 
Day  that  makes  the  future  fair ! 

Let  me  wake  to  bliss  alone  : 

Let  me  bury  every  fear  : 
What  I  prayed  for,  is  my  own  ; 

What  was  distant,  now  is  near. 

For  the  happy  hour  that  waits 
No  reproachful  shade  shall  bring, 

And  I  hear  forgiving  Fates 
In  the  happy  bells  that  ring. 

Leave  the  song  that  now  is  mute, 
For  the  sweeter  song  begun  : 

Leave  the  blossom  for  the  fruit, 
And  the  rainbow  for  the  sun ! 


I860. 


POSSESSION 


7  It  was  our  wedding-day 

A  month  ago,"  dear  heart,  I  hear  you 

say. 
If  months,  or  years,  or  ages  since  have 

passed, 
I  know  not :  I  have  ceased  to  question 

Time. 
I  only  know  that  once  there  pealed  a 

chime 
Of  joyous  bells,  and  then  I  held  you 

fast, 


THIRD   EVENING 


127 


And  all  stood  back,    and  none  my 

right  denied, 
And  forth  we  walked  :  the  world  was 

free  and  wide 
Before  us.     Since  that  day 
I  count  my  life  :  the  Past  is  washed 

away. 


It  was  no  dream,  that  vow : 

It  was  the  voice  that  woke  me  from  a 

dream,  — 
A  happy  dream,  I  think;    but  I  am 

waking  now, 
And  drink  the  splendor  of  a  sun  su- 
preme 
That  turns  the  mist  of  former  tears  to 

gold. 
Within  these  arms  I  hold 
The  fleeting  promise,  chased  so  long 

in  vain  : 
Ah,   weary   bird!   thou  wilt  not  fly 

again : 
Thy  wings  are  clipped,  thou  canst  no 

more  depart,  — 
Thy  nest  is  builded  in  my  heart ! 


I  was  the  crescent ;  thou 

The  silver   phantom   of  the    perfect 

sphere, 
Held    in    its    bosom :     in  one   glory 

now 
Our  lives  united  shine,  and  many  a 

year  — 
Not  the  sweet  moon  of  bridal  only  — 

we 
One  lustre,  ever  at  the  full,  shall  be  : 
One  pure  and  rounded  light,  one  planet 

whole, 
One   life  developed,    one   completed 

soul ! 
For  I  in  thee,  and  thou  in  me, 
L  nite  our  cloven  halves  of  destiny. 

IV 

God  knew  His  chosen  time  : 

He    bade    me    slowly   ripen    to    my 

prime, 
And  from  my  boughs  withheld  the 

promised  fruit, 
Till  storm  and  sun  gave  vigor  to  the 

root. 
Secure,  O  Love !  secure 
Thy  blessiDg  is  :  I  have  thee  day  and 

night : 


Thou  art  become  my  blood,  my  life, 

my  light : 
God's  mercy  thou,  and  therefore  shalt 

endure ! 
1S60. 

UNDER  THE  MOON 


From  you  and  home  I  sleep  afar, 
Under  the  light  of  a  lonely  star, 
Under  the  moon  that  marvels  why 
Away  from  you  and  home  I  lie. 
Ah  !  love  no  language  can  declare, 
The  hovering  warmth,  the  tender  care, 
The  yielding,  sweet,  invisible  air 
That  clasps  your  bosom,  and  fans  your 

cheek 
With  the  breath  of  words   I   cannot 

speak,  — 
Such  love  I   give,  such  warmth  im- 
part : 
The  fragrance  of  a  blossomed  heart. 


The  moon  looks  in  upon  my  bed, 
Her  yearning  glory  rays  my  head, 
And  round  me  clings,  a  lonely  light, 
The  aureole  of  the  winter  night ; 
But  in  my  heart  a  gentle  pain, 
A  balmier  splendor  in  my  brain, 
Lead  me  beyond  the  frosty  plane,  — 
Lead  me  afar,  to  mellower  skies, 
Where  under  the  moon  a  palace  lies ; 
Where   under   the  moon  our   bed   is 

made, 
Half  in  splendor  and  half  in  shade. 

in 
The  marble  flags  of  the  corridor 
Through  open  windows  meet  the  floor, 
And  Moorish  arches  in  darkness  rise 
Against  the  gleam  of  the  silver  skies : 
Beyond,  in  flakes  of  starry  light, 
A  fountain  prattles  to  the  night, 
And  dusky  cypresses,  withdrawn 
In  silent  conclave,  stud  the  lawn ; 
While  mystic  woodlands,  more  remote, 
In  seas  of  airy  silver  float, 
So  hung  in  heaven,  the  stars  that  set 
Seem  glossy  leaves  the  dew  has  wet 
On  topmost  boughs,  and  sparkling  yet. 

IV 

In  from  the  terraced  garden  blows 
The  spicy  soul  of  the  tuberose, 


128 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 


As  if  t  were  the  odor  of  strains  that 

pour 
From  the  nightingale's  throat  as  never 

before ; 
For  he  sings  not  now  of  wounding 

thorn, 
He  sings  as  the  lark  in  the   golden 

morn,  — 
A  song  of  joy,  a  song  of  bliss, 
Passionate  notes  that  clasp  and  kiss, 
Perfect  peace  and  perfect  pride, 
Love  rewarded  and  satisfied, 
For  I  see  you,  darling,  at  my  side. 


I  see  you,  darling,  at  my  side  : 
I  clasp  you  closer,  in  sacred  pride. 
I  shut  my  eyes,  my  senses  fail, 
Becalmed  by  Night's  ambrosial  gale. 
Softer  than  dews  the  planets  weep, 
Descends  a  sweeter  peace  than  sleep  ; 
All  wandering  sounds  and  motions  die 
In  the  silent  glory  of  the  sky ; 
But,  as  the  moon  goes  down  the  West, 
Your  heart,  against  my  happy  breast, 
Says  in  its  beating :  Love  is  Rest. 


THE  MYSTIC  SUMMER 

'T  is  not  the  dropping  of  the  flower, 
The  blush  of  fruit  upon  the  tree, 

Though  summer  ripens,  hour  by  hour, 
The  garden's  sweet  maternity  : 

'Tis  not  that  birds  have  ceased  to  build, 
And  wait  their  brood  with  tender 
care; 

That  corn  is  golden  in  the  field, 
And  clover  balm  is  in  the  air ;  — 

Not  these  the  season's  splendor  bring, 
And  crowd  with  life  the  happy  year, 

Nor  yet,  where  yonder  fountains  sing, 
The  blaze  of  sunshine,  hot  and  clear. 

In  thy  full  womb,  O  Summer  !  lies 
A  secret  hope,  a  joy  unsung, 

Held  in  the  hush  of  these  calm  skies, 
And    trembling     on    the    forest's 
tongue. 

The  lands  of  harvest  throb  anew 
In  shining  pulses,  far  away  ; 

The  Night  distils  a  dearer  dew, 
And  sweeter  eyelids  has  the  Day. 


And  not  in  vain  the  peony  burns, 
In  bursting  globes,  her  crimson  fire, 

Her  incense-dropping  ivory  urns 
The  lily  lifts  in  many  a  spire  : 

And  not  in  vain  the  tulips  clash 
In  revelry  the  cups  they  hold 

Of  fiery  wine,  until  they  dash 
With    ruby    streaks    the    splendid 
gold! 

Send    down  your   roots   the    mystic 
charm 
That  warms  and  flushes  all  your 
flowers, 
And  with  the  summer's  touch  disarm 
The  thraldom  of  the  under  powers, 

Until,  in  caverns,  buried  deep, 

Strange   fragrance   reach   the   dia- 
mond's home, 

And  murmurs  of  the  garden  sweep 
The  houses  of  the  frighted  gnome ! 

For,  piercing  through  their  black  re- 
pose, 

And  shooting  up  beyond  the  sun, 
I  see  that  Tree  of  Life,  which  rose 

Before  the  eyes  of  Solomon : 

Its  boughs,  that,  in  the  light  of  God, 
Their    bright,    innumerous    leaves 
display,  — 

Whose  hum  of  life  is  borne  abroad 
By  winds  that  shake  the  dead  away. 

And,  trembling  on  a  branch  afar, 
The  topmost  nursling  of  the  skies, 

I  see  my  bud,  the  fairest  star 
That  ever  dawned  for  watching  eyes. 

Unnoticed  on  the  boundless  tree, 
Its  fragrant  promise  fills  the  air ; 

Its  little  bell  expands,  for  me, 
A  tent  of  silver,  lily-fair. 

All  life  to  that  one  centre  tends  ; 

All  joy  and  beauty  thence  outflow  ; 
Her  sweetest  gifts  the  summer  spends, 

To  teach  that  sweeter  bud  to  blow. 

So,  compassed  by  the  vision's  gleam, 
In  trembling  hope,  from  day  to  day, 

As  in  some  bright,  bewildering  dream, 
The  mystic  summer  wanes  away. 

1859. 


THIRD    EVENING  129 

THE  FATHER  THE  MOTHER 


The  fateful  hour,  when  Death  stood 

by 

And  stretched  his  threatening  hand 

in  vain, 
Is  over  now,  and  Life's  first  cry 

Speaks  feeble  triumph  through  its 

pain. 

But  yesterday,  and  thee  the  Earth 
Inscribed  not  on  her  mighty  scroll  : 

To-day  she  opes  the  gate  of  birth, 
And  gives  the  spheres  another  soul. 

But  yesterday,  no  fruit  from  me 
The  rising  windsof  Time  had  hurled : 

To-day,  a  father,  —  can  it  be 
A  child  of  mine  is  in  the  world  ? 

I  look  upon  the  little  frame, 
As  helpless  on  my  arm  it  lies  : 

Thou  giv'st  me,  child,  a  father's  name, 
God's  earliest  name  in  Paradise. 

Like  Him,  creator  too  I  stand : 
His  Power  and  Mystery  seem  more 
near; 

Thou  giv'st  me  honor  in  the  land, 
And  giv'st  my  life  duration  here. 

But  love,  to-day,  is  more  than  pride ; 

Love  sees  his  star  of  triumph  shine, 
For  Life  nor  Death  can  now  divide 

The  souls  that  wedded  breathe  in 
thine : 

Mine  and  thy  mother's,  whence  arose 
The  copy  of  my  face  in  thee  ; 

And  as  thine  eyelids  first  unclose, 
My  own  young  eyes  look  up  to  me. 

Look  on  me,  child,  once  more,  once 
more, 
Even  with  those  weak,  unconscious 
eyes  ; 
Stretch  the  small  hands  that  help  im- 
plore ; 
Salute  me  with  thy  wailing  cries  ! 

This  is  the  blessing  and  the  prayer 
A  father's  sacred  place  demands  : 

Ordain  me,  darling,  for  thy  care, 
And    lead    me    with    thy    helpless 
hands ! 

1858. 


Paler,  and  yet  a  thousand  times  more 
fair 
Thau    in    thy    girlhood's    freshest 
bloom,  art  thou  : 
A  softer  sun-flush  tints  thy  golden 
hair, 
A  sweeter  grace  adorns  thy  gentle 
brow. 

Lips  that  shall  call  thee  "mother!" 
at  thy  breast 
Feed  the  young  life,  wherein  thy 
nature  feels 
Its  dear  fulfilment:    little  hands  are 
pressed 
On  the  white  fountain  Love  alone 
unseals. 

Look  down,  and  let  Life's  tender  day- 
break throw 
A  second  radiance  on  thy  ripened 
hour: 
Retrace  thine  own  forgotten  advent 
so, 
And  in  the  bud  behold  thy  perfect 
flower. 

Nay,  question  not :  whatever  lies  be- 
yond 
God  will  dispose.    Sit  thus,  Madonna 
mine, 
For  thou  art  haloed  with  a  love  as 
fond 
As  Jewish  Mary  gave  the  Child  Di- 
vine. 

I    lay  my  own    proud    title  at   thy 
feet ; 
Thine  the  first,  holiest  right  to  love 
shalt  be : 
Though  in  his  heart  our  wedded  pulses 
beat, 
His  sweetest  life  our  darling  draws 
from  thee. 

The  father  in  his  child  beholds  this 
truth, 
His  perfect  manhood  has  assumed 
its  reign  : 
Thou  wear'st  anew  the  roses  of  thy 
youth,  — 
The  mother  in  her  child  is  born 
again. 

1858. 


i3o  THE   POET'S   JOURNAL 

Thus  came  the  Poet's  Journal  to  an  end. 
His  heart's  completed  music  ceased  to  flow 
From  Ernest's  lips  :  the  tale  I  wished  to  know 
Was  wholly  mine.     "lam  content,  dear  friend," 
I  said  :  "to  me  no  voice  can  be  obscure 
Wherein  your  nature  speaks  :  the  chords  I  hear, 
Too  far  and  frail  to  strike  a  stranger's  ear." 
With  that,  I  bowed  to  Edith's  forehead  pure, 
And  kissed  her  with  a  brother's  blameless  kiss  : 

"  To  you  the  fortune  of  these  days  I  owe, 
My  other  Ernest,  like  him  most  in  this, 
That  you  can  hear  the  cries  of  ancient  woe 
With  holy  pity  free  from  any  blame 
Of  jealous  love,  and  find  your  highest  bliss 
To  know,  through  you  his  life's  fulfilment  came." 

"  And  through  him,  mine,"  the  woman's  heart  replied : 
For  Love's  humility  is  Love's  true  pride. 

"  These  are  your  sweetest  poems,  and  your  best," 
To  him  I  said.     "  I  know  not,"  answered  he, 

"  They  are  my  truest.     I  have  ceased  to  be 
The  ambitious  knight  of  Song,  that  shook  his  crest 
In  public  tilts :  the  sober  hermit  I, 
Whose  evening  songs  but  few  approach  to  hear,  — 
Who,  if  those  few  should  cease  to  lend  an  ear, 
Would  sing  them  to  the  forest  and  the  sky 
Contented  :  singing  for  myself  alone. 
No  fear  that  any  poet  dies  unknown, 
Whose  songs  are  written  in  the  h'earts  that  know 
And  love  him,  though  their  partial  verdict  show 
The  tenderness  that  moves  the  critic's  blame. 
Those  few  have  power  to  lift  his  name  above 
Forgetfulness,  to  grant  that  noblest  fame 
Which  sets  its  trumpet  to  the  lips  of  Love  ! " 

"  Nay,  then,"  said  I,  "you  are  already  crowned. 
If  your  ambition  in  the  loving  pride 
Of  us,  your  friends,  is  cheaply  satisfied, 
We  are  those  trumpets :  do  you  hear  them  sound  ?  " 
And  Edith  smilingly  together  wound 
Light  stems  of  ivy  to  a  garland  fair, 
And  pressed  it  archly  on  her  husband's  hair ; 
But  he,  with  earnest  voice,  though  in  his  eyes 
A  happy  laughter  shone,  protesting,  said  : 

"  Respect,  dear  friends,  the  Muse's  sanctities, 
Nor  mock,  with  wreaths  upon  a  living  head, 
The  holy  laurels  of  the  deathless  Dead. 
Crown  Love,  crown  Truth  when  first  her  brow  appears, 
And  crown  the  Hero  when  his  deeds  are  done  : 
The  Poet's  leaves  are  gathered  one  by  one, 
In  the  slow  process  of  the  doubtful  years. 
Who  seeks  too  eagerly,  he  shall  not  find  : 
Who,  seeking  not,  pursues  with  single  mind 
Art's  lofty  aim,  to  him  will  she  accord, 
At  her  appointed  time,  the  sure  reward." 


THIRD   EVENING  131 

The  tall  clock,  standing  sentry  in  the  hall, 

Struck  midnight :  on  the  panes  no  longer  heat 

The  weary  storm  :  the  wind  began  to  fall, 

And  through  the  breaking  darkness  glimmered,  sweet 

With  tender  stars,  the  flying  gleams  of  sky. 

Come,  Edith,  lend  your  voice  to  crown  the  night, 

And  give  the  new  day  sunny  break,"  said  I : 

She  listening  first  in  self -deceiving  plight 

Of  young  maternal  trouble,  for  a  cry 

From  Arthur's  crib,  sat  down  in  happy  calm, 

And  sang  to  Ernest's  heart  his  own  thanksgiving  psalm. 

Tliou  who  sendest  sun  and  rain, 
Thou  icho  spendest  bliss  and  pain, 
Good  with  bounteous  hand  bestowing, 
Evil  for  Thy  icill  allowing,  — 
Though  Thy  ways  we  cannot  see, 
All  is  just  that  comes  from  Thee. 

In  the  peace  of  hearts  at  rest, 
In  the  child  at  mother's  breast, 
In  the  lives  that  now  surround  us, 
In  the  deaths  that  sorely  wound  us, 
Though  we  may  not  understand, 
Father,  we  behold  Thy  hand  ! 

Hear  the  happy  hymn  we  raise  ; 
Take  the  love  which  is  Thy  praise  ; 
Give  content  in  each  condition  ; 
Bend  our  hearts  in  sweet  submission, 
And  Thy  trusting  children  prove 
Worthy  of  the  Father's  love  ! 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 
1861-1865 


THROUGH  BALTIMORE 


'T  was  Friday  morn  :  the  train  drew 
near 
The  city  and  the  shore. 
Far  through   the  sunshine,  soft  and 

clear, 
"We  saw  the  dear  old  flag  appear, 
And  in  our  hearts  arose  a  cheer 
For  Baltimore. 


Across  the  broad  Patapsco's  wave, 

Old  Fort  McHenry  bore 
The  starry  banner  of  the  brave, 
As  when  our  fathers  went  to  save, 
Or  in  the  trenches  find  a  grave 
At  Baltimore. 


Before  us,  pillared  in  the  sky, 

We  saw  the  statue  soar 
Of  "Washington,  serene  and  high  :  — 
Could  traitors  view  that  form,  nor  fly  ? 
Could  patriots  see,  nor  gladly  die 

For  Baltimore  ? 

IV 

"  O  city  of  our  country's  song ! 
By  that  swift  aid  we  bore 
"When    sorely    pressed,    receive    the 

throng 
"Who  go  to  shield  our  flag  from  wrong, 
And    give   us    welcome,    warm    and 
strong, 
In  Baltimore!" 


"We  had  no  arms  ;  as  friends  we  came, 

As  brothers  evermore, 
To  rally  round  one  sacred  name,  — 
The  charter  of  our  power  and  fame : 
"We  never  dreamed  of  guilt  and  shame 

In  Baltimore. 


VI 

The  coward  mob  upon  us  fell : 
McHenry's  flag  they  tore : 

Surprised,    borne   backward   by   the 
swell, 

Beat  down  with  mad,  inhuman  yell, 

Before  us  yawned  a  traitorous  hell 
In  Baltimore ! 


The  streets  our  soldier-fathers  trod 

Blushed  with  their  children's  gore ; 
We  saw  the  craven  rulers  nod, 
And  dip  in  blood  the  civic  rod  — 
Shall   such    things  be,    O   righteous 
God, 
In  Baltimore  ? 

VIII 

No,  never  !    By  that  outrage  black, 
A  solemn  oath  we  swore, 

To   bring  the   Keystone's  thousands 
back, 

Strike  down  the  dastards  who  attack, 

And  leave  a  red  and  fiery  track 
Through  Baltimore ! 

IX 

Bow  down,  in  haste,  thy  guilty  head ! 

God's  wrath  is  swift  and  sore  : 
The  sky  with  gathering  bolts  is  red,  — 
Cleanse  from  thy  skirts  the  slaughter 

shed, 
Or  make  thyself  an  ashen  bed, 

O  Baltimore ! 

April,  1861. 

TO  THE  AMERICAN  PEOPLE 

That  late,  in  half-despair,  I  said  : 
"  The  Nation's  ancient  life  is  dead  ; 
Her  arm  is  weak,  her  blood  is  cold  ; 
She   hugs   the  peace   that   gives  her 
gold,  — 


i36 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


The  shameful  peace,  that  sees  expire 
Each  beacon-light  of  patriot  fire, 
And    makes    her    court    a    traitors' 

den,"  — 
Forgive  me  this,  my  countrymen ! 

O,  in  your  long  forbearance  grand, 
Slow  to  suspect  the  treason  planned, 
Enduring  wrong,  yet  hoping  good 
For  sake  of  olden  brotherhood, 
How  grander,  how  sublimer  far 
At  the  roused  Eagle's  call  ye  are, 
Leaping  from  slumber  to  the  fight, 
For  Freedom  and  for  Chartered  Right ! 

Throughout  the  land  there  goes  a  cry ; 
A  sudden  splendor  fills  the  sky : 
From  every  hill  the  banners  burst, 
Like  buds  by  April  breezes  nurst ; 
In  every  hamlet,  home,  and  mart, 
The  fire-beat  of  a  single  heart 
Keeps  time  to  strains  whose  pulses  mix 
Our  blood  with  that  of  Seventy-Six  ! 

The  shot  whereby  the  old  flag  fell 
From  Sumter's  battered  citadel 
Struck  down  the  lines  of  party  creed 
And  made  ye  One  in  soul  and  deed,  — 
One  mighty  People,  stern  and  strong 
To  crush  the  consummated  wrong ; 
Indignant  with  the  wrath  whose  rod 
Smites  as  the  awful  sword  of  God ! 

The  cup  is  full !     They  thought  ye 

blind  : 
The  props  of  state  they  undermined  ; 
Abused  your  trust,  your  strength  de- 
fied, 
And   stained   the  Nation's  name  of 

pride. 
Now  lift  to  Heaven  your  loyal  brows, 
Swear  once  again  your  fathers'  vows, 
And  cut  through  traitor  hearts  a  track 
To  nobler  fame  and  freedom  back  ! 

Draw  forth  your  million  blades  as  one ; 
Complete  the  battle  then  begun ! 
God  fights  with  ye,  and  overhead 
Floats  the  dear  banner  of  your  dead. 
They,  and  the  glories  of  the  Past, 
The  Future,  dawning  dim  and  vast, 
And  all  the  holiest  hopes  of  Man, 
Are  beaming  triumph  in  your  van ! 

Slow  to  resolve,  be  swift  to  do! 
Teach  ye  the  False  how  fight  the  True ! 


How  bucklered  Perfidy  shall  feel 

In    her    black    heart    the     Patriot's 

steel ; 
How  sure  the  bolt  that  Justice  wings ; 
How  weak  the  arm  a  traitor  brings  ; 
How  mighty  they,  who  steadfast  stand 
For  Freedom's  Flag  and   Freedom's 

Land! 
April  30,  1861. 


SCOTT  AND  THE  VETERAN 


An  old  and  crippled  veteran  to  the 

War  Department  came ; 
He  sought  the  Chief  who  led  him  on 

many  a  field  of  fame,  — 
The  Chief  who  shouted  "  Forward  !  " 

where'er  his  banner  rose, 
And  bore  its  stars  in  triumph  behind 

the  flying  foes. 


"Have  you  forgotten,  General,"  the 

battered  soldier  cried, 
"The    days    of    Eighteen    Hundred 

Twelve,  when  I  was  at  your 

side  ? 
Have  you    forgotten   Johnson,   that 

fought  at  Lundy's  Lane  ? 
'Tis  true,   I'm  old    and    pensioned, 

but  I  want  to  fight  again." 

in 
"  Have  I  forgotten  ?  "  said  the  Chief ; 

' '  my  brave  old  soldier,  No ! 
And  here 's  the  hand  I  gave  you  then, 

and  let  it  tell  you  so : 
But  you   have  done  your  share,  my 

friend  ;    you  're    crippled,    old, 

and  gray, 
And  we  have  need  of  younger  arms 

and  fresher  blood  to-day." 


* '  But,  General, "  cried  the  veteran,  a 

flush  upon  his  brow, 
' '  The  very  men  who  fought  with  us, 

they  say,  are  traitors  now  ; 
They  've   torn    the    flag  of   Lundy's 

Lane,  —  our  old  red,  white,  and 

blue ; 
And  while  a  drop  of  blood  is  left,  I  '11 

show  that  drop  is  true. 


MARCH 


137 


"  I  'm  not  so  weak  but  I  can  strike, 

and  I'vea  good  old  gun 
To  get  the  range  of  traitors'  hearts, 

and  pick  them,  one  by  one. 
Your  Minie  rifles,  and  such  arms,  it 

a'n't  worth  while  to  try  : 
I  could  n't  get  the  hang  o'  them,  but 

I  '11  keep  my  powder  dry  1 " 


' '  God  bless  you,  comrade  !  "  said  the 

Chief;   "God  bless  your  loyal 

heart ! 
But  younger  men  are  in  the  field,  and 

claim  to  have  their  part : 
They'll  plant   our  sacred  banner  in 

each  rebellious  town, 
And  woe,    henceforth,  to   any  hand 

that  dares  to  pull  it  down  !  " 

VTI 

"  But,  General,"  — still  persisting,  the 

weeping  veteran  cried,  — 
"  I  'm  young  enough  to  follow,  so  long 

as  you  're  my  guide  ; 
And  some,  you  know,  must  bite  the 

dust,  and  that,  at  least,  can  I,  — 
So,  give  the  young  ones  place  to  fight, 

but  me  a  place  to  die ! 

VIII 

"If  they  should  fire  on  Pickens,  let 

the  Colonel  in  command 
Put  me  upon  the  rampart,  with  the 

flagstaff  in  my  hand : 
No  odds  how  hot  the  cannon-smoke,  or 

how  the  shells  may  fly  ; 
I  '11  hold  the  Stars  and  Stripes  aloft, 

and  hold  them  till  I  die ! 


"I'm  ready,  General,  so  you   let   a 

post  to  me  be  given, 
Where  Washington  can  see  me,  as  he 

looks  from  highest  heaven, 
And  say  to  Putnam  at  his  side,  or, 

may  be,  General  Wayne  ; 
'  There  stands  old  Billy  Johnson,  that 

fought  at  Lundy's  Lane ! ' 


"  And  when  the  fight  is  hottest,  before 

the  traitors  fly, 
When  shell  and  ball  are  screeching  and 

bursting  in  the  sky, 


If  any  shot  should  hit  me,  and  lay  me 

on  my  face, 
My  soul  would   go  to  Washington's, 

and  not  to  Arnold's  place  1 " 

May,  1861. 


MARCH 

With  rushing  winds  and  gloomy  skies 
The  dark  and  stubborn  Winter  dies  : 
Far-off,  unseen,  Spring  faintly  cries, 
Bidding  her  earliest  child  arise  : 

March! 

By  streams  still  held  in  icy  snare, 
On  southern  hillsides,  melting  bare, 
O'er  fields  that  motley  colors  wear, 
That  summons  fills  the  changeful  air : 

March ! 

What  though  conflicting  seasons  make 
Thy  days  their  field,  they  woo  or  shake 
The  sleeping  lids  of  Life  awake, 
And  hope  is  stronger  for  thy  sake, 

March ! 

Then  from  thy  mountains,  ribbed  with 

snow, 
Once  more  thy  rousing  bugle  blow, 
And  East  and  West,  and  to  and  fro, 
Annoimce  thy  coming  to  the  foe, 

March ! 

Say  to  the  picket,  chilled  and  numb  ; 
Say  to  the  camp's  impatient  hum ; 
Say  to  the  trumpet  and  the  drum : 
• '  Lift   up  your   hearts,    I  come  !    I 
come !  " 

March ! 

Cry  to  the  waiting  hosts  that  stray 
On  sandy  seasides,  far  away, 
By  marshy  isle  and  gleaming  bay, 
Where  Southern  March  is  Northern 
May: 

March ! 

Announce  thyself  with  welcome  noise, 
Where  Glory's  victor-eagles  poise 
Above  the  proud,  heroic  boys 
Of  Iowa  and  Illinois  : 

March! 

Then  down  the  long  Potomac's  line 
Shout  like  a  storm  on  hills  of  pine, 


133 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


Till  ramrods  ring  and  bayonets  shine : 
"Advance!    The  Chieftain's   call   is 
mine,  — 

March  ! " 

March  1,  1862. 

EUPHORION 

"  I  will  not  longer 
Earth-bound  linger : 
Loosen  your  hold  on 
Hand  and  on  ringlet, 
Girdle  and  garment ; 
Leave  them :  they  're  mine  ! " 

"  Bethink  thee,  bethink  thee 
To  whom  thou  belongest  ! 
Say,  wouldst  thou  wound  us, 
Rudely  destroying 
Threefold  the  beauty,  — 
Mine,  his,  and  thine  ?  " 

Faust,  Second  Part. 

Nay,  fold  your  arms,  beloved  Friends, 
Above  the  hearts  that  vainly  beat ! 

Or  catch  the  rainbow  where  it  bends, 
And  find  your  darling  at  its  feet ; 

Or  fix  the  fountain's  varying  shape, 
The  sunset-cloud's  elusive  dye, 

The  speech  of  winds  that  round  the 
cape 
Make  music  to  the  sea  and  sky  : 

So  may  you  summon  from  the  air 
The  loveliness  that  vanished  hence, 

And  Twilight  give  his  beauteous  hair, 
And  Morning  give  his  countenance, 

And  Life  about  his  being  clasp 
Her  rosy  girdle  once  again :  — 

But  no !  let  go  your  stubborn  grasp 
On  some  wild  hope,  and  take  your 
pain! 

For,  through  the  crystal  of  your  tears, 
His  love  and  beauty  fairer  shine  ; 

The  shadows  of  advancing  years 
Draw  back,  and  leave  him  all  divine. 

And   Death,   that  took  him,    cannot 
claim 
The  smallest  vesture  of  his  birth;  — 
The  little  life,  a  dancing  flame 
That    hovered    o'er    the    hills    of 
earth,  — 

The  finer  soul,  that  unto  ours 
A  subtle  perfume  seemed  to  be, 


Like  incense  blown  from  April  flow- 
ers 
Beside     the    scarred    and    stormy 
tree,  — 

The  wondering  eyes,  that  ever  saw 
Some  fleeting  mystery  in  the  air, 

And  felt  the  stars  of  evening  draw 
His    heart    to    silence,    childhood's 
prayer ! 

Our  suns  were  all  too  fierce  for  him  ; 

Our  rude  winds  pierced  him  through 
and  through : 
But  Heaven  has  valleys  cool  and  dim, 

And  boscage  sweet  with  starry  dew. 

There  knowledge  breathes  in  balmy 
air, 
Not  wrung,  as  here,  with  panting 
breast  : 
The  wisdom  born  of  toil  you  share  ; 
But  he,  the  wisdom  born  of  rest. 

For  every  picture  here  that  slept, 
A  living  canvas  is  unrolled  ; 

The  silent  harp  he  might  have  swept 
Leans   to  his  touch  its  strings  of 
gold. 

Believe,  dear  Friends,  they  murmur 
still 

Some  sweet  accord  to  those  you  play, 
That  happier  winds  of  Eden  thrill 

With  echoes  of  the  earthly  lay  ; 

That  he,  for  every  triumph  won, 
Whereto  your  poet-souls  aspire, 

Sees  opening  in  that  perfect  sun, 
Another  blossom's  bud  of  fire! 

Each  song,  of  Love  and  Sorrow  born, 
Another     flower    to    crown    your 
boy,— 
Each  shadow  here  his  ray  of  morn, 
Till  Grief  shall  clasp  the  hand  of 
Joy! 

1862. 


A  THOUSAND  YEARS 

A  thousand  years!    Through  storm 
and  fire, 
With  varying  fate,  the  work  has 
grown, 


THE   NEVA 


*39 


Till  Alexander  crowns  the  spire, 
Where  Rurik  laid  the  corner-stone. 

The  chieftain's  sword,  that  could  not 
rust, 

But  bright  in  constant  battle  grew, 
Raised  to  the  world  a  throne  august,  — 

A  nation  grander  than  he  knew. 

Nor  he,  alone  ;  but  those  who  have, 
Through  faith  or  deed,  an  equal 
part  : 

The  subtle  brain  of  Yaroslav, 
Vladimir's  arm  and  Nikon's  heart  : 

The  later  hands,  that  built  so  well 
The  work  sublime  which  these  be- 
gan, 
And  up  from  base  to  pinnacle 
Wrought  out  the  Empire's  mighty 
plan. 

All  these,  to-day,  are  crowned  anew, 
And  rule  in  splendor  where  they 
trod, 
While    Russia's   children    throng    to 
view 
Her  holy  cradle,  Novgorod. 

From  Volga's  banks;   from  Dwina's 
side  ; 
From  pine-clad  Ural,  dark  and  long ; 
Or  where  the  foaming  Terek's  tide 
Leaps   down  from  Kasbek,  bright 
with  song  : 

From  Altai's  chain  of  mountain-cones ; 

Mongolian  deserts,  far  and  free  ; 
And  lands  that  bind,  through  chang- 
ing zones, 

The  Eastern  and  the  Western  sea ! 

To  every  race  she  gives  a  home, 
And    creeds   and    laws   enjoy   her 
shade, 

Till,  far  beyond  the  dreams  of  Rome, 
Her  Caesar's  mandate  is  obeyed. 

She  blends  the  virtues  they  impart, 
And  holds,  within  her  life  combined, 

The  patient  faith  of  Asia's  heart,  — 
The  force  of  Europe's  restless  mind. 

She    bids    the    nomad's    wanderings 
cease  ; 
She  binds  the  wild  marauder  fast ; 


Her  ploughshares  turn  to  homes  of 
peace 
The  battle-fields  of  ages  past. 

And,  nobler  yet,  she  dares  to  know 
Her  future's   task,   nor    knows  in 
vain  ; 
But  strikes  at  once  the  generous  blow 


So,  firmer-based,  her  power  expands, 
Nor    yet    has    seen    its    crowning 
hour,  — 
Still  teaching  to  the  struggling  lands 
That    Peace    the    offspring    is    of 
Power. 

Build,   then,   the   storied  bronze,   to 
tell 
The  steps  whereby  this  height  she 
trod,  — 
The  thousand  years  that  chronicle 
The  toil  of  Man,  the  help  of  God ! 

And    may    the    thousand    years    to 
come,  — 
The  future  ages,  wise  and  free,  — 
Still  see  her  flag,  and  hear  her  drum 
Across    the    world,    from    sea   to 
sea!  — 

Still  find,  a  symbol  stern  and  grand, 
Her  ancient  eagle's  wings  unshorn  : 

One  head  to  watch  the  Western  land, 
And  one  to  guard  the  land  of  morn ! 

Novgorod,  Russia,  1862. 


THE  NEVA 

I  walk,  as  in  a  dream, 
Beside  the  sweeping  stream, 
Wrapped  in  the  summer  midnight's 
amber  haze : 
Serene  the  temples  stand, 
And  sleep,  on  either  hand, 
The  palace-fronts  along   the  granite 
quays. 

Where  golden  domes,  remote, 

Above  the  sea-mist  float, 
The  river-arms,  dividing,  hurry  forth ; 

And  Peter's  fortress-spire, 

A  slender  lance  of  fire, 
Still  sparkles  back  the  splendor  of  the 
North. 


140 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


The  pillared  angel  soars 
Above  the  silent  shores  ; 
Dark   from    his  rock    the    horseman 
hangs  in  air ; 
And  down  the  watery  line 
The  exiled  Sphinxes  pine 
For  Karnak's  morning  in  the  mellow 
glare. 

I  hear,  amid  the  hush, 
The  restless  current's  rush, 
The    Neva  murmuring   through   his 
crystal  zone : 
A  voice  portentous,  deep, 
To  charm  a  monarch's  sleep 
With  dreams  of  power  resistless  as  his 
own. 

Strong  from  the  stormy  Lake, 
Pure  from  the  springs  that  break 
In  Valdai"  vales  the   forest's    mossy 
floor, 
Greener  than  beryl-stone 
From  fir-woods  vast  and  lone, 
In  one  full  stream  the  braided  currents 
pour. 

' '  Build  up  your  granite  piles 

Around  my  trembling  isles," 
I  hear  the  River's  scornful  Genius  say: 

"  Raise  for  eternal  time 

Your  palaces  sublime, 
And  flash  your  golden  turrets  in  the 
day! 

' '  But  in  my  waters  cold 

A  mystery  I  hold,  — 
Of  empires  and  of  dynasties  the  fate  : 

I  bend  my  haughty  will, 

Unchanged,  unconquered  still, 
And  smile  to  note  your  triumph  :  mine 
can  wait. 

"Your  fetters  I  allow, 
As  a  strong  man  may  bow 
His  sportive  neck  to  meet  a  child's 
command, 
And  curb  the  conscious  power 
That  in  one  awful  hour 
Could  whelm  your  halls  and  temples 
where  they  stand. 

"When  infant  Rurik  first 
His  Norseland  mother  nursed, 
My  willing  flood  the  future  chieftain 
bore  : 


To  Alexander's  fame 
I  lent  my  ancient  name, 
What  time  my  waves  ran  red  with 
Pagan  gore. 

"  Then  Peter  came.     I  laughed 
To  feel  his  little  craft 
Borne  on  my  bosom  round  the  marshy 
isles : 
His  daring  dream  to  aid, 
My  chafing  floods  I  laid, 
And  saw  my  shores  transfixed  with  ar- 
rowy piles. 

' '  I  wait  the  far-off  day 
When  other  dreams  shall  sway 
The  House  of  Empire  builded  by  my 
side,  — 
Dreams  that  already  soar 
From  yonder  palace -door, 
And  cast  their  wavering  colors  on  my 
tide,  — 

' '  Dreams  where  white  temples  rise 

Below  the  purple  skies, 
By  waters  blue,  which  winter  never 
frets,  — 

Where  trees  of  dusky  green 

From  terraced  gardens  lean, 
And  shoot  on  high  the  reedy  minarets. 

"  Shadows  of  mountain-peaks 
Vex  my  unshadowed  creeks ; 
Dark    woods    o'erhang    my    silvery 
birchen  bowers ; 
And  islands,  bald  and  high, 
Break  my  clear  round  of  sky, 
And  ghostly  odors  blow  from  distant 
flowers. 

"  Then,  ere  the  cold  winds  chase 
These  visions  from  my  face, 

I  see  the  starry  phantom  of  a  crown, 
Beside  whose  blazing  gold 
This  cheating  pomp  is  cold, 

A  moment  hover,  as  the  veil  drops 
down. 

"Build  on !    That  day  shall  see 
My  streams  forever  free. 
Swift  as  the  wind,  and  silent  as  the 
snow, 
The  frost  shall  split  each  wall  : 
Your  domes  shall  crack  and  fall : 
My  bolts  of  ice  shall  strike  your  barri- 
ers low  1 " 


FROM   THE   NORTH 


On  palace,  temple,  spire, 
The  morn's  descending  fire 

In  thousand  sparkles  o'er  the  city  fell : 
Life's  rising  murmur  drowned 
The  Neva  where  he  wound 

Between  his  isles  :  he  keeps  his  secret 
well. 

1863. 


A  STORY  FOR  A  CHILD 


Little  one,  come  to  my  knee  ! 

Hark  how  the  rain  is  pouring 
Over  the  roof,  in  the  pitch-black  night, 

And  the  wind  in  the  woods  a-roar- 


in°;! 


it 


Hush,  my  darling,  and  listen, 

Then  pay  for  the  story  with  kisses: 

Father   was  lost  in  the   pitch-black 
night, 
In  just  such  a  storm  as  this  is! 

ni 

High  up  on  the  lonely  mountains, 
Where  the  wild  men  watched  and 
waited; 
Wolves  in  the  forest,  and  bears  in  the 
bush, 
And  I  on  my  path  belated. 


The  rain  and  the  night  together 
Came  down, and  the  wind  came  after, 

Bending  the  props  of  the  pine-tree  roof 
And  snapping  many  a  rafter. 


I  crept  along  in  the  darkness, 

Stunned,  and  bruised,  and  blinded  — 

Crept  to  a  fir  with  thick-set  boughs, 
And  a  sheltering  rock  behind  it. 

VI 

There,  from  the  blowing  and  raining 
Crouching,  I  sought  to  hide  me : 

Something  rustled,    two    green  eyes 
shone, 
And  a  wolf  lay  down  beside  me. 


Little  one,  be  not  frightened 
I  and  the  wolf  together, 


Side  by  side,  through  the  Ions 
night, 
Hid  from  the  awful  weather. 


141 

lonsr 


His  wet  fur  pressed  against  me  ; 

Each  of  us  warmed  the  other  : 
Each  of  us  felt,  in  the  stormy  dark, 

That  beast  and  man  was  brother. 


And  when  the  falling  forest 
No  longer  crashed  in  warning, 

Each  of  us  went  from  our  hiding- 
place 
Forth  in  the  wild,  wet  morning. 


Darling,  kiss  me  payment ! 

Hark  how  the  wind  is  roaring  : 
Father's  house  is  a  better  place 

When  the  stormy  rain  is  pouring ! 

1861. 


FROM  THE  NORTH 

Once  more  without  you!  Sighing, 
Dear,  once  more, 

For  all  the  sweet,  accustomed  minis- 
tries 

Of  wife  and  mother  :  not  as  when  the 
seas 

That  parted  us  my  tender  message 
bore 

From  the  gray  olives  of  the  Cretan 
shore 

To  those  that  hide  the  broken  Phidian 
frieze 

Of  our  Athenian  home,  —  but  far  de- 
grees, 

Wide  plains,  great  forests,  part  us  now. 
My  door 

Looks  on  the  rushing  Neva,  cold  and 
clear : 

The  swelling  domes  in  hovering  splen- 
dor lie 

Like  golden  bubbles,  eager  to  be 
gone; 

But  the  chill  crystal  of  the  atmos- 
phere 

Withholds  them,  and  along  the 
northern  sky 

The  amber  midnight  smiles  in  dreams 
of  dawn. 

1862. 


142 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


A  WEDDING  SONNET 

TO  T.    B.    A.    AND  L.    W. 

Sad  Autumn,  drop  thy  weedy  crown 

forlorn, 
Put  off  thy  cloak  of  cloud,  thy  scarf 

of  mist, 
And  dress  in  gauzy  gold  and  amethyst 
A  day  benign,  of  sunniest  influence 

born, 
As  may  befit  a  Poet's  marriage  morn! 
Give    buds    another    dream,   another 

tryst 
To  loving  hearts,  and  print  on  lips 

unkissed 
Betrothal-kisses,  laughing  Spring  to 

scorn  ! 
Yet,  if  unfriendly  thou,  with  sullen 

skies, 
Bleak  rains,  or  moaning  winds,  dost 

menace  wrong, 
Here   art  thou  foiled :   a  bridal  sun 

shall  rise 
And  bridal  emblems  unto  these  belong. 
Round  her  the  sunshine  of  her  beauty 

lies, 
And  breathes  round  "him  the  spring- 
time of  his  song  ! 
1865. 

CHRISTMAS  SONNETS 
i 

TO  G.    H.    B. 

If  that  my  hand,   like  yours,   dear 

George,  were  skilled 
To  win   from   Wordsworth's   scanty 

plot  of  ground 
A  shining  harvest,  such  as  you  have 

found, 
Where  strength  and  grace,  fraternally 

fulfilled, 
As  in  those  sheaves  whose  rustling 

glories  gild 
The  hills  of  August,  folded  are,  and 

bound ; 
So  would  I  draw  my  loving   tillage 

round 
Its  borders,  bid  the  gentlest  rains  be 

spilled, 
The  goldenest  suns  its  happy  growth 

compel, 
And  bind  for  you  the  ripe,  redundant 

grain : 


But,  ah  !  you  stand  amid  your  songful 

sheaves, 
So  rich,  this   weed-born  flower  you 

might  disdain, 
Save  that  of  me  its  growth  and  color 

tell, 
And  of  my  love  some  perfume  haunt 

its  leaves ! 


ii 

TO    K.    H.    S. 


Each, 


The  years  go  by,  old  Friend  ! 

as  it  fleets, 
Moves  to  a  farther,  fairer  realm,  the 

time 
When  first  we  twain  the  pleasant  land 

of  Rhyme 
Discovered,  choosing  side  by  side  our 

seats 
Below  our  separate  Gods  :  in  midnight 

streets 
And  haunted  attics  flattered  by  the 

chime 
Of  silver  words,  and,  fed  by  faith  sub- 
lime, 
I  Shelley's  mantle  wore,  you  that  of 

Keats,  — 
Dear  dreams,  that  marked  the  Muse's 

childhood  then, 
Nor  now  to  be  disowned  !    The  years 

goby; 
The  clear- eyed .  Goddess  flatters  us  no 

more  ; 
And  yet,  I  think,  in  soberer  aims  of 

men, 
And  Song's  severer  service,  you  and  I 
Are  nearer,   dearer,  faithfuller  than 

before. 

in 

TO  E.    C.    S. 

When  days  were  long,  and  o'er  that 

farm  of  mine, 
Green  Cedarcroft,  the  summer  breezes 

blew, 
And  from  the  walnut  shadows  [I  and 

you, 
Dear  Edmund,  saw  the  red  lawn-roses 

shine, 
Or  followed  our  idyllic  Brandy  wine 
Through  meadows  flecked  with  many 

a  flowery  hue, 
To  where  with  wild  Arcadian  pomp  I 

drew 


CHANT 

among    the 


143 


Your    Bacchic    march 

startled  kine, 
You  gave  me,  linked  with  old  Ma^on- 

ides, 
Your  loving  sonnet,  — record  dear  and 

true 
Of  days  as  dear  :  and  now,  when  suns 

are  brief, 
And  Christmas  snows  are  on  the  naked 

trees, 
I  give  you  this,  —  a  withered  wunter 

leaf, 
Yet  with  your  blossom  from  one  root 

it  grew. 

IV 
TO  J.    L.    G. 

If  I  could  touch  with  Petrarch's  pen 

this  strain 
Of  graver  song,  and  shape  to  liquid 

flow 
Of  soft  Italian  syllables  the  glow 
That  warms    my  heart,    my   tribute 

were  not  vain  : 
But  how  shall  I  such  measured  sweet- 
ness gain 
As  may  your  golden  nature  fitly  show, 
And  with  the  heart-light  shine,  that 

fills  you  so, 
It  pales  the  graces  of  the  cultured 

brain? 
Long  have  I  known,  Love  better  is 

than  Fame, 
And  Love  hath  crowned  you :  yet  if 

any  bay 
Cling  to  my  chaplet  when  the  years 

have  fled, 
And  I  am  dust,  may  this  which  bears 

your  name 
Cling    latest,   that  my  love's    result 

shall  stay 
When    that    which    mine    ambition 

wrought  is  dead. 


A  STATESMAN 

He  knew  the  mask  of   principle  to 

wear, 
And  power   accept  while  seeming  to 

decline  : 
So  cunningly  he  wrought,  with  tools 

so  fine, 
Setting  his  courses  with  so  frank  an 

air, 


(Yet  most  secure  when  seeming  most 

to  dare,) 

He  did  deceive  us  all:  with  mien  be- 
nign 
His  malice  smiled,  his  cowardice  the 

sign 
Of  courage  took,  his  selfishness  grew 

fair, 
So  deftly  could  his  foiled  ambition 

show 
A  modest  acquiescence.     Now,  't  is 

clear 
What  man  he  is,  —  how  false  his  high 

report ; 
Mean  to  the  friend,  caressing  to  the 

foe  ; 
Plotting  the  mischief  which  he  feigns 

to  fear ; 
Chief    Eunuch,    were  but    ours    the 

Sultan's  court ! 

1865. 

CHANT 

FOR  THE  BRYANT  FESTIVAL 

November  5,  1864 

One  hour  be  silent,  sounds  of  war  ! 

Delay  the  battle  he  foretold, 
And  let  the  Bard's  triumphant  star 

Send  down  from  heaven  its  milder 
gold ! 

Let  Fame,  that  plucks  but  laurel  now 
For  loyal  heroes,  turn  away, 

And  twine,  to  crown  our  poet's  brow, 
The  greener  garland  of  the  bay. 

For  he,  our  earliest  minstrel, 
Fills  the  land  with  echoes,  sweet  and 
long, 

Gives  language  to  her  silent  hills, 
And  bids  her  rivers  move  to  song. 

The  Phosphor  of  the  Nation's  dawn, 
Sole  risen  above  our  tuneless  coast, 

As  Hesper  now,  his  lamp  burns  on,  — 
The  leader  of  the  starry  host. 

He  sings  of  mountains  and  of  streams, 

Of  storied  field  and  haunted  dale, 
Yet  hears   a  voice    through  all    his 
dreams, 
Which  says:     "  The  Good  shall  yet 
prevail." 


144 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


He  sings  of  Truth,  he  sings  of 
Right ; 

He  sings  of  Freedom,  and  hi* strains 
March  with  our  armies  to  the  fight, 

Ring  in  the  bondman's  falling  chains. 


God,  bid  him  live,  till  in  her  place 
Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  again  shall 
rise, — 

The  "mother  of  a  mighty  race" 
Fulfil  her  poet's  prophecies ! 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

1861-1871 


A  DAY  m  MARCH 

Look  forth,  Beloved,  from  thy  man- 
sion high, 

By  soft  airs  fanned, 
And  see  the  summer  from  her  bluest  sky 
Surprise  the  land ! 

See  how  the  bare  hills  bask  in  purple 
bliss 

Along  the  south : 
On  the  brown  death  of  winter  falls  a 
kiss 

From  summer's  mouth ! 

From  pines  that  weave,  among  the 
ravished  trees, 

Their  phantom  bowers, 
A  murmur  comes,  as  sought  the  ghosts 
of  bees 

The  ghosts  of  flowers. 

Though  yet  no  blood  may  swell  the 
willow  rind, 

Xo  grass-blade  start, 
A  dream  of  blossoms  fills  the  yearning 
wind, 

Of  love,  my  heart. 

Look  forth,  Beloved,  through  the  ten- 
der air, 

And  let  thine  eyes 
The  violets  be,  it  finds  not  anywhere, 

And  scentless  dies. 

Look,  and  thy  trembling  locks  of  plen- 
teous gold 

The  day  shall  see, 
And  search  no  more  where  first,  on  yon- 
der wold, 

The  cowslips  be. 

Look,  and  the  wandering  summer  not 
forlorn 

Shall  turn  aside, 


Content  to  leave  her  million  flowers 
unborn, 

Her  songs  untried. 

Drowsy  with  life  and  not  with  sleep  or 
death 

I  dream  of  thee  : 
Breathe  forth  thy  being  in  one  answer- 
ing breath, 

And  come  to  me  ! 

Come  forth,  Beloved !  Love's  exultant 
sign 

Is  in  the  sky : 
And  let  me  lay  my  panting  heart  to 
thine 

And  die ! 
1861. 

THE  TEST 

"Farewell  awhile,  my  bonnie  dar- 
ling ! 

One  long,  close  kiss,  and  I  depart : 
I  hear  the  angry  trumpet  snarling, 

The  drum-beat  tingles  at  my  heart." 

Behind  him,  softest  flutes  were  breath- 
ing, 
Across  the  vale  their  sweet  recall ; 
Before  him  burst  the  battle,   seeth- 
ing 
In  flame  beneath  its  thunder-pall. 

All  sights  and  sounds  to  stay  invited  ; 

The  meadows  tossed  their  foam  of 
flowers ; 
The  lingering  Day  beheld,  delighted, 

The  dances  of  his  amorous  Hours. 

He  paused  :  again  the  foul  temptation 
Assailed  his  heart,  so  firm  before, 

And  tender  dreams,  of  Love's  crea- 
tion, 
Persuaded  from  the  peaceful  shore. 


148  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

he  sternly  cried;  "I  fol 


' '  But  no  ! 
low 

The  trumpet,   not    the    shepherd's 
reed. 
Let  idlers  pipe  in  pastoral  hollow,  — 
Be  mine  the  sword,  and  mine  the 
deed! 

"Farewell  to  Love  !"  he  murmured, 
sighing  : 
' '  Perchance  I  lose  what  most  is  dear : 
But  better  there,  struck  down  and  dy- 
ing, 
Than  be  a  man,  and  wanton  here  !  " 

He  went  where  battle's  voice  was  loud- 
est ; 
He  pressed  where  danger  nearest 
came  ; 
His  hand  advanced,  among  the  proud- 
est, 
Their  banner  through  the  lines  of 
flame. 

And  there,  when  wearied  Carnage  fal- 
tered, 
He,  foremost  of  the  fallen,  lay, 
While  Night  looked  down  with  brow 
unaltered, 
And  breathed  the  battle's  dust  away. 

There  lying,  sore  from  wounds  un- 
tended, 

A  vision  crossed  the  starry  gleam  : 
The  girl  he  loved  beside  him  bended, 

And  kissed  him  in  his  fever-dream. 

"O  love!"  she  cried,   "you  fled,  to 
find  me ; 
I  left  with  you  the  daisied  vale  ; 
I  turned  from  flutes  that  wailed  be- 
hind me, 
To  hear  your  trumpet's  distant  hail. 

"Your  tender  vows,   your  peaceful 
kisses, 
They  scarce  outlived  the  moment's 
breath ; 
But  now  we  clasp  immortal  blisses 
Of    Passion    proved    on  brinks  of 
Death! 

"  No  fate  henceforward  shall  estrange 
her 
Who  finds  a  heart  more  brave  than 
fond; 


For  Love,  forsook  this  side  of  danger, 
Waits  for  the  man  who  goes   be- 
yond !  * 

1862. 

CANOPUS 

A  LEAF  FROM  THE   PAST 

Above  the  palms,  the  peaks  of  pearly 
gray 
That  hang,  like  dreams,  along  the 
slumbering  skies, 
An  urn  of  fire  that  never  burns  away, 
I  see  Canopus  rise. 

An  urn  of  light,  a  golden-hearted  torch, 
Voluptuous,  drowsy-throbbing  mid 
the  stars, 
As,     incense-fed,     from    Aphrodite's 
porch 
Lifted,  to  beacon  Mars. 

Is  it  from  songs  and  stories  of  the  Past, 
With  names  and  scenes  that  make 
our  planet  fair,  — 
From  Babylonian  splendors,  vague  and 
vast, 
And  flushed  Arabian  air : 

Or  sprung  from  richer  longings  of  the 
brain 
And  spices  of  the  blood,  this  hot  de- 
sire 
To  lie  beneath  that  mellow  lamp  again 
And  breathe  its  languid  fire  ? 

From  tales  of  nights  when  watching 
David  saw 
Its   amorous  ray  on  bright  Bath- 
sheba's  head ; 
Or  Charmian  stole,  the  golden  gauze 
to  draw 
Round  Cleopatra's  bed  ? 

Or  when  white-breasted  Paris  touched 
the  lone 
Laconian  isle,  where  stayed  his  fly- 
ing oars, 
And  Helen  breathed  the  scent  of  vio- 
lets, blown 
Along  the  bosky  shores  ? 

Or    Kalidasa's     maiden,     wandering 
through 
The  moonlit  jungles  of  the  Indian 
lands, 


CUPIDO 


149 


While  shamed  mimosas  from  her  form 
withdrew 

Their  thin  and  trembling  hands  ? 

For  Fancy  takes  from  Passion  power 
to  Dili  Id 
A    brighter    fane    than    bloodless 
Thought  decrees, 
And  loves  to  see  its  spacious  chambers 
filled 
With  tropic  tapestries. 

And,  past  those  halls  which  for  itself 
the  mind 
Builds,   permanent  as  marble,  and 
as  cold, 
In  warm  surprises  of  the  blood  we  find 
The  sumptuous  dream  unfold ! 

There  shines  the  leaf  and  bursts  the 
blossom  sheath 
On    hills  deep-mantled    in  eternal 
June, 
Or  wave  their  whispering  silver,  un- 
derneath 
The  rainbow-cinctured  moon. 

Around  the  pillars  of  the  palm-tree 
bower 
The  orchids  cling,  in  rose  and  purple 
spheres ; 
Shield-broad  the  lily  floats  ;  the  aloe 
flower 
Foredates  its  hundred  years. 

Along  the  lines  of  coral,   white  and 
warm, 
Breaks  the  white  surf ;    hushed  is 
the  glassy  air, 
And  only  mellower  murmurs  tell  that 
storm 
Is  raging  otherwhere. 

The  mansion  gleams  with  dome  and 
arch  Moresque  — 
Ah,  bliss  to  lie  beside  the  jasper  urn 
Of  founts,  and  through  the  open  ara- 
besque 
To  watch  Canopus  burn  ! 

To  sit  at  feasts,  and  fluid  odors  drain 

Of  daintiest  nectar  that  from  grape 

is  caught, 

"While  faint  narcotics  cheat  the  idle 

brain 

With  phantom  shapes  of  thought ; 


Or,  listening  to  the  sweet,  seductive 
voice, 
No   will  hath    silenced,    since   the 
world  began, 
To     weigh     delight      unchallenged, 
making  choice 
Of  earlier  joys  of  man! 

Permit  the  dream  :  our  natures  two- 
fold are. 
Sense  hath  its  own  ideals,  which 
prepare 
A  rosy  background  for  the  soul's  white 
star, 
Whereon  it  shines  more  fair. 

Not    crystal    runs,    dissolved    from 
mountain  snow, 
The     poet's     blood ;     but    amber, 
musk,  impart 
Their  scents,  and  gems  their  orbed  or 
shivered  glow, 
To  feed  his  tropic  heart. 

While    Form  and  Color  undivorced 
remain 
In  every  planet  gilded  by  the  sun, 
His  craft  shall  forge  the  radiant  mar- 
riage-chain 
That  makes  them  purely  One  ! 

1865. 

CUPIDO 

THE  REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANTIQUATED 
FIGURE,  AFTER  READING  THE 
VIEWS  OF  CERTAIN  WOMEN  ON 
MARRIAGE   AND   DIVORCE 


Roseate  darling, 
Dimpled  with  laughter, 
Nursed  on  the  bosom 
Pierced  by  thee  after ; 
Fed  with  the  rarest 
Milk  of  the  fairest 
Fond  Aphrodite, 
Child  as  thou  art,  as  a  god  thou  art 
mighty  ! 


Thou  art  the  only 
Demigod  left  us ; 
Fate  hath  bereft  us, 
Science  made  lonely. 


:5o 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Visions  and  fables 
Shrink  from,  our  portals  ; 
Long  have  we  banished 
The  stately  Immortals ; 
Yet,  when  we  sent  them 
Trooping  to  Hades  — 
Olympian  gentlemen, 
Paphian  ladies  — 
Thou  hadst  re-risen, 
Ere  the  dark  prison 
Closed  for  the  last  time, 
Slipped  from  the  gate  and  returned  to 
thy  pastime  ! 


Ever  a  mystery, 
All  of  our  history 
Brightens  with  thee ! 
Systems  have  chained  us, 
Rulers  restrained  us, 
Fortune  disdained  us, 
Still  thou  wert  free ! 
Lofty  or  lowly, 
Brutish  or  holy, 
Spacious  or  narrow, 
Never  a  life   was  secure   from  thy 
arrow  ! 


Ah,  but  they  've  told  us 
Love  is  a  system  ! 
They  would  withhold  us 
When  we  have  kissed  him ! 
All  that  perplexes 
Sweetly  the  sexes 
They  would  control, 
And  with  Affinity 
Drive  the  Divinity 
Out  of  the  soul ! 
Better,  they  say,  is 
Phryne  or  Lai's 
Than  the  immutable 
Faith,  and  its  suitable 
Vow,  he  hath  taught  us ; 
Foolish  the  tender 
Pang,  the  surrender, 
When  he  has  caught  us ; 
Fancies  and   fetters  are  all  he    has 
brought  us. 


Future  parental, 
Physical,  mental 
Laws  they  prescribe  us ; 
And  with  ecstatic 
Strict  mathematic 
Blisses  would  bribe  us. 


Alkali,  acid, 
They  with  a  placid 
Mien  would  unite, 
And  the  wild  rapture 
Of  chasing  and  capture 
Curb  with  a  right ; 
Measuring,  dealing 
Even  the  kiss  of  the  twilight  of  feeling ! 


Who  shall  deliver 
Thee  from  their  credo  ? 
Rent  is  thy  quiver, 
Darling  Cupido  ! 
Naked,  yet  blameless, 
Tricksily  aimless, 
Secretly  sure, 
Who,  then,  thy  plighting, 
Wilful  uniting, 
Now  will  endure  ? 
Now,  when  experiment 
Based  upon  Science 
Sets  at  defiance, 
Harshly,  thy  merriment, 
Who  shall  caress  thee 
Warm  in  his  bosom,  and  bliss  thee  and 
bless  thee  ? 

VII 

Ever  't  is  May-time ! 
Ever  't  is  play-time 
Of  Beauty  and  Youth! 
Freed  from  confusion, 
Hides  in  illusion 
Nature  her  truth. 
Books  and  discourses, 
What  can  they  tell  us  ? 
Blood  with  its  forces 
Still  will  compel  us  ! 
Cold  ones  may  fly  to 
Systems,  or  try  to ; 
Innocent  fancy 
Still  will  enwind  us, 
Love's  necromancy 
Snare  us  and  bind  us, 
Systems  and  rights  lie  forgotten  be- 
hind us. 


1870. 


THE  SLEEPER 


The  glen  was  fair  as  some  Arcadian 

dell, 
All  shadow,  coolness,  and  the  rush 

of  streams, 
Save  where   the  sprinkled  blaze  of 

noonday  fell 


THE   SLEEPER 


Like  stars  within  its  under-sky  of 

dreams. 
Rich  leaf  and  blossomed  grape  and 

fern-tuft  made 
Odors  of  life   and   slumber  through 

the  shade. 

"0  peaceful  heart  of  Nature  !  "  was 
my  sigh ; 
"How  dost  thou   shame,  in  thine 
unconscious  bliss, 

Thy  sure  accordance  with  the  chang- 
ing sky, 

0  quiet  heart,  the  restless  beat  of 

this ! 
Take  thou  the  place  false  friends  have 

vacant  left, 
And  bring  thy  bounty  to  repair  the 

theft ! " 

So  sighing,  weary  with  the  unsoothed 
pain 
From  insect-stings  of  women  and  of 
men, 
Uneasy  heart  and  ever-baffled  brain, 

1  breathed  the  lonely  beauty  of  the 

glen, 
And  from  the  fragrant  shadows  where 

she  stood 
Evoked  the  shyest  Dryad  of  the  wood. 

Lo!  on  a  slanting  rock,  outstretched 
at  length, 
A  woodman  lay  in  slumber,  fair  as 
death, 

His  limbs  relaxed  in  all  their  supple 
strength, 
His  lips  half  parted  with  his  easy 
breath, 

And  by  one  gleam  of  hovering  light 
caressed 

His  bare  brown  arm  and  white  uncov- 
ered breast. 

"Why  comes  he  here  ?"  I  whispered, 

treading  soft 
The  hushing  moss  beside  his  flinty 

bed; 
"  Sweet    are    the    haycocks    in    yon 

clover-croft,  — 
The  meadow  turf  were  light  beneath 

his  head : 
Could  he  not  slumber  by  the  orchard - 

tree, 
And  leave  this  quiet  unprofaned  for 

me?" 


J5i 

I  bent, 
?ate- 


But  something  held  my  step. 

and  scanned 
(As  one  might  view  a  veiny  a^ 

stone) 
The  hard,   half -open    fingers  of    his 

hand, 
Strong  cords  of  wrist,  knit  round 

the  jointed  bone, 
And  sunburnt  muscles,  firm  and  full 

of  power, 
But  harmless  now  as  petals  of  a  flower. 

There  lay  the  unconscious  Life,  but, 

ah !  more  fair 
Than  ever  blindly  stirred  in  leaf  and 

bark, — 
Warmth,    beauty,    passion,    mystery 

everywhere, 
Beyond  the  Dryad's  feebly  burning 

spark 
Of    cold   poetic    being :    who    could 

say 
If  here  the  angel  or  the  wild  beast 

lay? 

Then  I  looked  up,  and  read  his  help- 
less face : 
Peace  touched  the  temples  and  the 
eyelids,  slept 

On    drooping    lashes,   made   itself  a 
place 
In  smiles  that  slowly  to  the  corners 
crept 

Of  parting  lips,  and  came  and  went, 
to  show 

The  happy  freedom  of  the  heart  below. 

A  holy  rest !  wherein  the  man  became 

Man's  interceding  representative  : 
In  Sleep's  white  realm  fell  off  his  mask 

of  blame, 
And  he  was  sacred,  for  that  he  did 

live. 
His  presence  marred  no  more  the  quiet 

deep, 
But  all  the  glen  became  a  shrine  of 

Sleep ! 

And  then  I  mused  :  how  lovely  this 
repose ! 
How  the  shut  sense  its  dwelling 
consecrates ! 
Sleep  guards  itself  against  the  hands 
of  foes ; 
Its  breath  disarms  the  Envies  and 
the  Hates 


*52 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


Which  haunt  our  lives :  were  this 
mine  enemy, 

My  stealthy  watch  could  not  less  rev- 
erent be ! 

So  hang  their  hands,  that  would  have 
done  me  wrong ; 
So  sweet  their  breathing,  whose  un- 
kindly spite 

Provoked  the  bitter  measures  of  my 
song  ; 
So  might  they  slumber,  sacred  in 
my  sight, 

Or  I  in  theirs:  —  why  waste  conten- 
tious breath  ? 

Forget,  like  Sleep  ;  and  then  forgive, 
like  Death ! 

1865. 


MY  FARM:  A  FABLE 

Within  a  green  and  pleasant  land 

I  own  a  favorite  plantation, 
Whose  woods  and  meads,  if  rudely 
planned, 
Are  still,  at  least,  my  own  creation. 
Some  genial  sun  or  kindly  shower 
Has  here  and  there  wooed  forth  a 
flower, 
And  touched  the  fields  with  expecta- 
tion. 

I  know  what  feeds  the  soil  I  till, 
What  harvest-growth  it  best  pro- 
duces : 
My  forests  shape  themselves  at  will, 
My    grapes    mature    their    proper 
juices. 
I  know    the    brambles  and    the 

weeds, 
But  know  the  fruits  and  whole- 
some seeds,  — 
Of  those  the  hurt,  of  these  the  uses. 

And  working  early,  working  late, 

Directing  crude  and  random  Nature, 
'T  is  joy  to  see  my  small  estate 

Grow  fairer  in  the  slightest  feature. 
If  but  a  single  wild -rose  blow, 
Or  fruit-tree  bend  with  April  snow, 
That  day  am  I  the  happiest  creature ! 

But  round  the  borders  of  the  land 
Dwell  many  neighbors,  fond  of  rov- 
ing ; 


With  curious  eye  and  prying  hand 
About  my  fields  I  see  them  mov- 
ing. 
Some  tread  my  choicest  herbage 

down, 
And  some  of  weeds  would  weave 
a  crown, 
And  bid  me  wear  it,  unreproving. 

"What  trees !  "  says  one  ;  "  who  ever 
saw 
A  grove,  like  this,  of  my  possess- 
ing? 
This  vale  offends  my  upland's  law  ; 
This  sheltered   garden  needs   sup- 
pressing. 
My  rocks  this  grass  would  never 

yield, 
And  how  absurd  the  level  field  ! 
What  here  will  grow  is  past  my 
guessing." 

"  Behold  the  slope!  "  another  cries: 
"No  sign  of  bog  or  meadow  near 
it! 
A  varied  surface  I  despise: 
There's  not  a  stagnant  pool  to  cheer 
it !  " 
"Why  plough  at  all ? "  remarked 

a  third. 
"Heaven  help  the  man  !  "  a  fourth 
I  heard, — 
' '  His  farm 's  a  jungle  :  let  him  clear 
it  !" 

No  friendly  counsel  I  disdain  : 

My  fields  are  free  to  every  comer  ; 
Yet  that  which  one  to  praise  is  fain 
But  makes  another's  visage  glum- 
mer. 
I  bow  them  out,   and  welcome 

in, 
But  while  I  seek  some  truth  to 
win, 
Goes  by,  unused,  the  golden  sum- 
mer ! 

Ah  !  vain  the  hope  to  find  in  each 

The  wisdom  each  denies  the  other ; 
These  mazes  of  conflicting  speech 
All  theories  of  culture  smother. 
I'll  raise  and  reap,  with  honest 

hand, 
The  native  harvest  of  my  land  ; 
Do  thou  the  same,  my  wiser  brother ! 


HARPOCRATES 


*53 


HARPOCRATES 


"  The  rest  is  silence. 


Hamlet. 


The  message  of  the  god  I  seek 

In  voice,  in  vision,  or  in  dream, 
Alike  on  frosty  Dorian  peak, 

Or  by  the  slow  Arcadian  stream : 
Where'er  the  oracle  is  heard, 

I  bow  the  head  and  bend  the  knee 
In  dream,  in  vision,  or  in  word, 

The  sacred  secret  reaches  me. 


Athwart  the  dim  Trophonian  caves, 

Bat -like,  the  gloomy  whisper  flew  ; 
The  lisping  plash  of  Paphian  waves 

Bathed  every  pulse  in  fiery  dew: 
From  Phoebus,  on  his  cloven  hill, 

A  shaft  of  beauty  pierced  the  air, 
And  oaks  of  gray  Dodona  still 

Betrayed  the  Thunderer's  presence 
there. 


The  warmth  of  love,  the  grace  of  art, 

The  joys  that  breath  and  blood  ex- 
press, 
The  desperate  forays  of  the  heart 

Into  an  unknown  wilderness,  — 
All  these  I  know  :  but  sterner  needs 

Demand  the  knowledge  which  must 
dower 
The  life  that  on  achievement  feeds, 

The  grand  activity  of  power. 


What  each  reveals  the  shadow  throws 

Of  something  unrevealed  behind  ; 
The  Secret's  lips  forever  close 

To  mock  the  secret  undivined: 
Thence  late  I  came,  from  weary  dreams 

The  son  of  Isis  to  implore, 
Whose  temple -front  of  granite  gleams 

Across  the  Desert's  yellow  floor. 


Lo !  where  the  sand,  insatiate,  drinks 

The  steady  splendor  of  the  air, 
Crouched  on   her   heavy    paws,   the 
Sphinx 
Looks  forth   with  old,   unwearied 
stare ! 
Behind  her,  on  the  burning  wall, 
The  long  processions  flash  and  glow : 


The  pillared  shadows  of  the  hall 
Sleep  with  their  lotus-crowns  be- 
low. 

VI 

A  square  of  dark  beyond,  the  door 

Breathes    out    the   deep  adytum's 
gloom : 
I  cross  the  court's  deserted  floor, 

And  stand  within  the  sacred  room. 
The  priests  repose  from  finished  rite  ; 

No  echo  rings  from  pavements  trod ; 
And  sits  alone,  in  swarthy  light, 

The  naked  child,  the  temple's  god. 


No  sceptre,  orb,  or  mystic  toy 

Proclaims  his  godship,  young  and 
warm 
He  sits  alone,  a  naked  boy, 

Clad  in  the  beauty  of  his  form. 
Dark,  solemn  stars,  of  radiance  mild, 

His  eyes  illume  the  golden  shade, 
And  sweetest  lips  that  never  smiled 

The  finger  hushes,  on  them  laid. 

VIII 

O,  never  yet  in  trance  or  dream 

That  falls  when  crowned  desire  has 
died, 
So  breathed  the  air  of  power  supreme, 

So  breathed,  and  calmed,  and  satis- 
fied! 
Those  mystic  lips  were  not  unsealed 

The  temple's  awful  hush  to  break, 
But  unto  inmost  sense  revealed, 

The  deity  his  message  spake : 


"If  me  thou  knowest,  stretch  thy  hand 
And   my     possessions    thou    shalt 
reach : 
I  grant  no  help,  I  break  no  band, 
I  sit  above  the  gods  that  teach. 
The  latest-born,  my  realm  includes 
The  old,  the  strong,  the  near,  the 
far,  — 
Serene  beyond  their  changeful  moods, 
And    fixed    as    Night's    unmoving 
star. 


"A  child,  I  leave  the  dance  of  Earth 
To  be  my  horned  mother's  care: 

My  father  Ammon's  Bacchic  mirth, 
Delighting  gods,  I  may  not  share. 


154 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


I  turn  from  Beauty,  Love,  and  Power, 

In  singing  vale,  on  laughing  sea  ; 
From  Youth  and  Hope,  and  wait  the 
hour 
When  weary  Knowledge  turns  to 
me. 

XI 

"Beneath  my  hand  the  sacred  springs 

Of  Man's  mysterious  being  burst, 
And  Death  within  my  shadow  brings 

The  last  of  life,  to  greet  the  first. 
There  is  no  god,  or  grand  or  fair, 

On  Orcan  or  Olympian  field, 
But  must  to  me  his  treasures  bear, 

His  one  peculiar  secret  yield. 


"I  wear  no  garment,  drop  no  shade 

Before  the  eyes  that  all  things  see  ; 
My  worshippers,  howe'er  arrayed, 
Come  in  their  nakedness  to  me. 
The  forms  of  life  like  gilded  towers 
May   soar,    in    air    and     sunshine 
drest,  — 
The  home  of  Passions  and  of  Pow- 
ers, — 
Yet  mine  the  crypts  whereon  they 
rest. 

XIII 

"Embracing  all,  sustaining  all, 

Consoling  with  unuttered  lore, 
Who  finds  me  in  my  voiceless  hall 

Shall  need  the  oracles  no  more. 
I  am  the  knowledge  that  insures 

Peace,  after  Thought's  bewildering 
range ; 
I  am  the  patience  that  endures ; 

I  am  the  truth  that  cannot  change  ! " 


RUN  WILD 

Heke  was  the  gate.      The    broken 
paling, 
As  if  before  the  wind,  inclines, 
The  posts  half  rotted,  and  the  pickets 
failing, 
Held  only  up  by  vines. 

The  plum-trees  stand,  though  gnarled 
and  speckled 
With  leprosy  of  old  disease ; 
By  cells  of  wormy  life  the  trunks  are 
freckled, 
And  moss  enfolds  their  knees. 


I  push  aside  the  boughs  and  enter : 

Alas!  the  garden's  nymph  has  fled, 
With  every  charm  that  leaf  and  blos- 
som lent  her, 
And  left  a  hag  instead. 

Some  female  satyr  from  the  thicket, 

Child  of  the  bramble  and  the  weed, 
Sprang  shouting  over  the  unguarded 
wicket 
With  all  her  savage  breed. 

She  banished  hence  the  ordered  graces 
That  smoothed  a  way  for  Beauty's 
feet, 
And  gave  her  ugliest  imps  the  vacant 
places, 
To  spoil  what  once  was  sweet. 

Here,  under  rankling  mulleins,  dwin- 
dle 
The  borders,  hidden  long  ago  ; 
Here  shoots  the  dock  in  many  a  rusty 
spindle, 
And  purslane  creeps  below. 

The    thyme    runs  wild,   and    vainly 
sweetens, 
Hid  from  its  bees,  the  conquering 
grass ; 
And  even  the  rose  with  briery  menace 
threatens 
To  tear  me  as  I  pass. 

Where  show  the  weeds  a  grayer  color, 

The  stalks  of  lavender  and  rue 
Stretch  like   imploring    arms, — but, 
ever  duller, 
They  slowly  perish  too. 

Only  the  pear-tree's  fruitless  scion 
Exults  above  the  garden's  fall ; 
Only  the  thick-maned  ivy,  like  a  lion, 
Devours  the  crumbling  wall. 

What  still  survives  becomes  as  savage 

As  that  which  entered  to  destroy, 
Taking  an  air  of  riot  and  of  ravage, 
Of  strange  and  wanton  joy. 

No  copse  unpruned,  no  mountain  hoL 

low, 

So  lawless  in  its  growth  may  be  : 

Where  the  wild  weeds  have  room  to 

chase  and  follow, 

They  graceful  are,  and  free. 


CASA   GUIDI    WINDOWS 


:55 


But  Xature  here  attempts  revenges 

For  her  obedience  unto  toil ; 
She  brings  her  rankest  life  with  loath- 
some changes 
To  smite  the  fattened  soil. 

For  herbs  of  sweet  and  wholesome 
savor 
She  plants  her  stems  of  bitter  juice  : 
From  flowers  she  steals  the  scent,  from 
fruits  the  flavor, 
From  homelier  things  the  use. 

Her  angel  is  a  mocking  devil, 

If  once  the  law  relax  its  bands  ; 
In  Man's  neglected  fields  she  holds 
her  revel. 
Takes  back,  and  spoils  his  lands. 

Once  having  broken  ground,  he  never 

The  virgin  sod  can  plant  again: 
The   soil  demands  his    services    for- 
ever. — 
And  God  gives  sun  and  rain  ! 

1868. 


SONNET 

Where  should  the  Poet's  home  and 

household  be  ? 
Beneath  what  skies,  in  what  untrou- 
bled air 
Sings  he  for  very  joy  of  songs  so  fair 
That  in  their  steadfast  laws  he  most  is 

free  ? 
In  woods  remote,  where  darkly  tree  on 

tree 
Let  fall   their  curtained  shadows,  to 

ensnare 
His  dreams,  or  hid  in  Fancy's  happiest 

lair,  — 
Some  laughing  island  of  the  stormless 

sea  ? 
Ah,  never  such  to  him  their  welcome 

gave  ! 
But.  flattered  by  the  gods  in  finer  scorn, 
He  drifts  upon  the  world's  unresting 

wave. 
As  drifts  a  sea-flower,  by  the  tempest 

torn 
From  sheltered  porches  of  the  coral 

cave 
Where  it  expands,  of  calm  and  silence 

born. 


"CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS" 

Returned  to  warm  existence,  —  even 

as  one 
Sentenced,     then    blotted    from    the 

headsman's  book, 
Accepts   with   doubt  the   life   again 

begun,  — 
I  leave  the  duress  of  my  couch,  and  look 
Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  to  the 

sun. 

A  fate  like  Farinata's  held  me  fast 
In  some  devouring  pit  of  fever-fire, 
Until,  from  ceaseless  forms  of  toil  that 

cast 
Their  will  upon  me,  whirled  in  end- 
less gyre, 
The  Spirit  of  the  House  brought  help 
at  last. 

With  Giotto  wrestling,  through  the 
desperate  hours 

A  thousand  crowded  frescos  must  I 
paint, 

Or  snatch  from  twilights  dim,  and 
dusky  bowers, 

Alternate  forms  of  bacchanal  and  saint, 

The  streets  of  Florence  and  her  beau- 
teous towers. 

Weak,  wasted  with  those  torments  of 

the  brain, 
The  circles  of  the  Tuscan  master's  hell 
Were    dreams    no  more ;    but   when 

their  fiery  strain 
Was  fiercest,  deep  and  sudden  stillness 

fell 
Athwart  the  storm,  and  all  was  peace 

again. 

She  came,  whom  Casa  Guidi's  cham- 
bers knew, 

And  know  more  proudly,  an  Immortal, 
now  : 

The  air  without  a  star  was  shivered 
through 

With  the  resistless  radiance  of  her 
brow, 

And  glimmering  landscapes  from  the 
darkness  grew. 

Thin,  phantom-like ;  and  yet  she 
brought  me  rest. 

Unspoken  words,  an  understood  com- 
mand 


i56 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Sealed  weary  lids  with  sleep,  together 

pressed 
In  clasping  quiet  wandering  hand  to 

hand, 
And  smoothed  the  folded  cloth  above 

the  breast. 

Now,  looking  through  these  windows, 

where  the  day- 
Shines  on  a  terrace  splendid  with  the 

gold 
Of  autumn  shrubs,  and  green  with 

glossy  bay, 
Once  more   her  face,   re-made   from 

dust,  I  hold 
In  light  so  clear  it  cannot  pass  away :  — 

The  quiet  brow  ;  the  face  so  frail  and 
fair 

For  such  a  voice  of  song  ;  the  steady 
eye, 

Where  shone  the  spirit  fated  to  out- 
wear 

Its  fragile  house ;  —  and  on  her  features 
lie 

The  soft  half -shadows  of  her  drooping 
hair. 

Who  could  forget  those  features,  hav- 
ing known  ? 

Whose  memory  do  his  kindling  rever- 
ence wrong 

That  heard  the  soft  Ionian  flute,  whose 
tone 

Changed  with  the  silver  trumpet  of 
her  song  ? 

No  sweeter  airs  from  woman's  lips 
were  'blown. 

Ah,  in  the  silence  she  has  left  be- 
hind 

How  many  a  sorrowing  voice  of  life 
is  still ! 

Songless  she  left  the  land  that  cannot 
find 

Song  for  its  heroes ;  and  the  Roman 
hill, 

Once  free,  shall  for  her  ghost  the  laurel 
wind. 

The  tablet  tells  you,  "  Here  she  wrote 

and  died," 
And  grateful  Florence  bids  the  record 

stand  : 
Here  bend  Italian  love  and  English 

pride 


Above  her  grave,  —  and  one  remoter 

land, 
Free  as  her  prayers  would  make  it,  at 

their  side. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  vision:  yonder 
see 

The  moving  clouds  that  speak  of  free- 
dom won ! 

And  life,  new-lighted,  with  a  lark-like 
glee 

Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  hails  the 
sun, 

Grown  from  the  rest  her  spirit  gave 
to  me. 

Florence,  1867. 

PANDORA 

Italy,  loved  of  the  sun, 

Wooed  of  the  sweet  winds  and  wed 

by  the  sea, 
When,  since  the  nations  begun, 
Was  other  inheritance  like  unto  thee  ? 

Splendors  of  sunshine  and  snows 
Flash  from  thy  peaks  to  thy  bath  in 

the  brine  ; 
Thine  are  the  daisy  and  rose, 
The  grace  of  the  palm  and  the  strength 

of  the  pine : 

Orchard  and  harvested  plain ; 

Lakes,  by  the  touch  of  the  tempest 

unstirred ; 
Dells  where  the  Dryads  remain, 
And  mountains  that  rise  to  a  music 

unheard  ? 

Generous  gods,  at  thy  birth, 
Heaped  on  thy  cradle  with  prodigal 

hand 
Gifts,  and  the  darling  of  earth 
Art  thou,  and  wast  ever,  O  ravishing 

land! 

Strength  from  the  Thunderer  came, 
Pride  from  the  goddess  that  governs 

his  board ; 
While,  in  his  forges  of  flame, 
Hephaestus  attempered  thine    armor 

and  sword. 

Lo !  Aphrodite  her  zone, 
Winning  all  love  to  thy  loveliness, 
gave; 


SORRENTO 


157 


Leaving  her  Paphian  throne 
To    breathe   on    thy    mountains   and 
brighten  thy  wave. 

Bacchus  the  urns  of  his  wine 

Gave,  and  the  festivals  crowning  thy 

toil; 
Ceres,  the  mother  divine, 
Bestowed  on  thee  bounties  of  corn  and 

of  oil. 

Phoebus  the  songs  that  inspire, 
Caught   from   the  airs  of  Olympus, 

conferred : 
Hermes,  the  sweetness  and  fire 
That  pierce  in  the  charm  of  the  elo- 
quent word. 

So  were  thy  graces  complete  ; 

Yea,  and,  though  ruined,  they  fasci- 
nate now : 

Beautiful  still  are  thy  feet, 

And  girt  with  the  gold  of  lost  lordship 
thy  brow. 

1868. 

SORRENTO 


The  gods  are  gone,  the  temples  over- 
thrown, 
The  storms  of  time  the  very  rocks 
have  shaken  : 
The  Past  is  mute,  save  where  some 
mouldy  stone 
Speaks  to  confuse,  like  speech  by 
age  o'ertaken. 
The  pomp  that  crowned  the  wind- 
ing shore 
Has  fled  for  evermore : 
Its  old  magnificence  shall  never  re- 
awaken. 


Where  once,  against  the  Grecian  ships 
arrayed, 
The  Oscan  warriors  saw  their  jave- 
lins hurtle, 
The  farmer  prunes  his  olives,  and  the 
maid 
Trips  down  the  lanes  in  flashing  vest 
and  kirtle  : 
The  everlasting  laurel  now 
Forgets  Apollo's  brow, 
And,  dedicate  no  more  to  Venus, 
blooms  the  myrtle. 


Yet  still,  as  long  ago,  when  this  high 
coast 
Phoenician  strangers  saw,  and  flying 
Dardans, 
The  bounteous  earth  fulfils  her  an- 
cient boast 
In  mellow  fields  which  Winter  never 
hardens  ; 
And  daisy,  lavender,  and  rose 
Perpetual  buds  unclose, 
To  flood  with  endless  balm  the  tiers 
of  hanging  gardens. 

IV 

From    immemorial    rocks  the  daffo- 
dil 
Beckons  with  scented  stars,  an  un- 
reached wonder : 
On  sunny  banks  their  wine  the  hya- 
cinths spill, 
And    self -betraying    violets   bloom 
thereunder  ; 
While  near  and  threatening,  dim 

and  deep, 
The  wave  assails  the  steep, 
Or  booms  in  hollow  caves  with  sound 
of  smothered  thunder. 


Here  Nature,  dropping  once  her  or- 
dered plan, 
Fashioned  all    lovely  things    that 
most  might  please  her  — 
A  playground  guarded  from  the  greed 
of  man, 
The  childish  gauds,  wherewith  he 
would  appease  her : 
Her  sweetest  air,  her  softest  wave 
Reluctantly  she  gave 
To  grace  the  wealth  of  Rome,    to 
heal  the  languid  Caesar. 


She  stationed  there  Vesuvius,   to  be 
Contrasted  horror  to  her  idyl  ten- 
der : 
Across  the  azure  pavement    of    the 
sea 
She  raised  a  cape  for  Bai'ae's  marble 
splendor ; 
And  westward,    on   the  circling 

zone, 
To  front  the  seas  unknown, 
She  planted  Capri's  couchant  lion  to 
defend  her. 


i58 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


VII 

A  mother  kind,  she  doth  but  tantalize  : 
Nor  from  her  secret  gardens  will  she 
spurn  us. 
The  Roman,  casting  hitherward  his 
eyes, 
Forgot     his    Sybaris    beside    Vol- 
turnus  — 
Forgot  the  streams  and   sylvan 

charms 
That  decked  his  Sabine  farms, 
And  orchards  on  the  slopes  that  sink 
to  still  Avernus. 

VIII 

Here  was  his  substance  wasted :  here 
he  lost 
The  marrow  that  subdued  the  world, 
in  leisure ; 
Counting  no  days  that  were  not  feasts, 
no  cost 
Too  dear  to  purchase  finer  forms  of 
pleasure ; 
Yet,  while  for  him  stood  still  the 

sun, 
The  restless  world  rolled  on, 
And  shook  from  off  its  skirts  Caesar 
and  Caesar's  treasure. 

IX 

Less  than  he  sought  will  we :  a  moon 
of  peace, 
To  feed  the  mind  on  Fancy's  airy 
diet  ; 
Soft  airs  that  come  like  memories  of 
Greece, 
Nights  that  renew  the  old  Phoeni- 
cian quiet : 
Escape  from  yonder  burning  crest 
That  stirs  with  new  unrest, 
And  in  its  lava-streams  keeps  hot  the 
endless  riot. 


Here,  from  the  wars  of  Gaul,  the  strife 
of  Rome, 
May  we,  meek  citizens,  a  summer 
screen  us  : 
Here  find  with  milder  Earth  a  perfect 
home, 
Once,  ere  she  puts  profounder  rest 
between  us : 
Here  break  the  sacred  laurel  bough 
Still  for  Apollo's  brow, 
And  bind  the  myrtle  buds  to  crown 
a  purer  Venus. 

1868. 


IN  MY  VINEYARD 


At  last  the  dream  that  clad  the  field 

Is  fairest  fact,  and  stable  ; 
At  last  my  vines  a  covert  yield, 

A  patch  for  song  and  fable. 
I  thread  the  rustling  ranks,  that  hide 

Their  misty  violet  treasure, 
And  part  the  sprays  with  more  than 
pride, 

And  more  than  owner's  pleasure. 


The  tender  shoots,  the  fragrance  fine, 

Betray  the  garden's  poet, 
Whose  daintiest  life  is  turned  to  wine, 

Yet  half  is  shy  to  show  it,  — 
The  epicure,  who  yields  to  toil 

A  scarce  fulfilled  reliance, 
But  takes  from  sun  and  dew  and  soil 

A  grace  unguessed  by  science. 

in 

Faint  odors,  from  the  bunches  blown, 

Surround  me  and  subdue  me  ; 
The  vineyard-breath  of  many  a  zone 

Is  softly  breathing  through  me  : 
From  slopes  of  Eshkol,  in  the  sun, 

And  many  a  hillside  classic  : 
From  where  Falernian  juices  run, 

And  where  they  press  the  Massic ! 

IV 

Where  airy  terraces,  on  high, 

The  hungry  vats  replenish, 
And,  less  from  earth  than  from  the 
sky, 

Distil  the  golden  Rhenish  : 
Where,  light  of  heart,  the  Bordelais 

Compels  his  stony  level 
To  burst  and  foam  in  purple  spray,  — 

The  rose  that  crowns  the  revel ! 


So  here,  as  there,  the  subject  earth 

Shall  take  a  tenderer  duty  ; 
And  Labor  walk  with  harmless  Mirth, 

And  wed  with  loving  Beauty  : 
So  here,  a  gracious  life  shall  fix 

Its  seat,  in  sunnier  weather ; 
For  sap  and  blood  so  sweetly  mix, 

And  richly  run  together  ! 

VI 

The  vine  was  exiled  from  the  land 
That  bore  but  needful  burdens  ; 


THE   TWO   GREETINGS 


r59 


But  now  we  slack  the  weary  hand, 
And  look  for  gentler  guerdons : 

We  take  from  Ease  a  grace  above 
The  strength  we  took  from  Labor, 

And  win  to  laugh,  and  woo  to  love, 
Each  grimly-earnest  neighbor. 

VII 

What  idle  dreams  !    Even  as  I  muse, 

I  feel  a  falling  shadow  ; 
And  vapors  blur  and  clouds  confuse 

My  coming  Eldorado. 
Portentous,  grim,  a  ghost  draws  nigh, 

To  clip  my  flying  fancy, 
And  change  the'shows  of  earth  and  sky 

With  evil  necromancy. 

VIII 

The  leaves  on  every  vine-branch  curl 

As  if  a  frost  had  stung  them ; 
The  bunches  shrivel,  snap,  and  whirl 

As  if  a  tempest  flung  them  ; 
And  as  the  ghost  his  forehead  shakes, 

Denying  and  commanding, 
But  withered  stalks  and  barren  stakes 

Surround  me  where  I  'm  standing. 

IX 

"Beware!"  the  spectre  cried,    "the 
woe 

Of  this  delusive  culture ! 
The  nightingale  that  lures  thee  so 

Shall  hatch  a  ravening  vulture. 
To  feed  the  vat,  to  fill  the  bin, 

Thou  piuck'st  the  vineyard's  foison, 
That  drugs  the  cup  of  mirth  with  sin, 

The  veins  of  health  with  poison ! " 


But  now  a  golden  mist  was  born, 

With  violet  odors  mingled : 
I  felt  a  brightness,  as  of  morn, 

And  all  my  pulses  tingled  ; 
And  forms  arose,  — among  them  first 

The  old  Ionian  lion, 
And  they,  Sicilian  Muses  nursed,  — 

Theocritus  and  Bion. 


And  he  of  Teos,  he  of  Rome, 
The  Sabine  bard  and  urban  ; 

And  Saadi,  from  his  Persian  home, 
And  Hafiz  in  his  turban : 

And   Shakespeare,  silent,  sweet,  and 
grave, 
And  Herri ck  with  his  lawns  on  ; 


And  Luther,  mellow,  burly,  brave, 
Along  with  Rare  Ben  Jonson ! 

XII 

"  Be  comforted  ! "  they  seemed  to  say ; 

' '  For  Nature  does  no  treasons : 
She  neither  gives  nor  takes  away 

Without  eternal  reasons. 
She  heaps  the  stores  of  corn  and  oil 

In  such  a  liberal  measure, 
That,  past  the  utmost  need  of  Toil, 

There 's  something  left  for  Pleasure. 

XIII 

' '  The  secret  soul  of  sun  and  dew 

Not  vainly  she  distilleth, 
And  from  these  globes  of  pink  and 
blue 

A  harmless  cup  she  filleth : 
Who  loveth  her  may  take  delight 

In  what  for  him  she  dresses, 
Nor  find  in  cheerful  appetite 

The  portal  to  excesses. 

XIV 

' '  Yes,  ever  since  the  race  began 

To  press  the  vineyard's  juices, 
It  was  the  brute  within  the  man 

Defiled  their  nobler  uses  ; 
But  they  who  take  from  order  joy, 

And  make  denial  duty, 
Provoke  the  brute  they  should  destroy 

By  Freedom  and  by  Beauty  !  " 


They    spake ;    and    lo  !    the    baleful 
shape 

Grew  dim,  and  then  retreated  ; 
And  bending  o'er  the  hoarded  grape, 

The  vines  my  vision  greeted. 
The  sunshine  burst,  the  breezes  turned 

The  leaves  till  they  were  hoary, 
And  over  all  the  vineyard  burned 

A  fresher  light  of  glory  ! 

1869. 


THE  TWO   GREETINGS 

I.  —  Salve  ! 

Scarce  from  the  void  of  shadows 
taken, 

We  hail  thine  opening  eyelids,  boy ! 
Be  welcome  to  the  world !     Awaken 

To  strength  and  beauty,  and  to  joy! 


i6o 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Within  those  orbs  of  empty  wonder 
Let  life  its  stany  fires  increase, 

And  curve  those  tender  lips  asunder 
With  faintest  smiles  of  baby  peace. 

Sealed  in  their  buds,  the  beauteous 
senses 

Shall  gladden  thee  as  they  unfold : 
With  soft  allurements,  stern  defences, 

Thy  riper  being  they  shall  mould. 

Far-eyed  desires  and  hopes  unbounded 
Within  thy  narrow  nest  are  furled : 

Behold,  for  thee  how  fair  is  rounded 
The  circle  of  the  sunlit  world ! 

The  oceans  and  the  winds  invite  thee, 
The  peopled  lands  thy  coming  wait : 

No  wreck  nor  storm  shall  long  affright 
thee, 
For  all  are  parts  of  thine  estate. 

Advance  to  every  triumph  wrested 
By    plough  and    pencil,    pen    and 
sword, 
For,  with  thy  robes  of  action  vested, 
Though  slaves  be  others,  thou  art 
lord! 

Thy  breath  be  love;  thy  growth  be 
duty, 

To  end  in  peace  as  they  began: 
Pre-human  in  thy  helpless  beauty, 

Become  more  beautiful,  as  Man ! 


II.— Vale  ! 

Now  fold  thy  rich  experience  round 
thee, 
To  shield    therewith    the    sinking 
heart : 
The  sunset-gold  of  Day  hath  crowned 
thee : 
The  dark  gate  opens,  —  so  depart ! 

What  growth  the  leafy  years  could 
render 
No  more  into  its  bud  returns  ; 
It  clothes  thee  still  with  faded  splendor 
As  banks  are  clothed  by  autumn 
ferns. 

All  spring  could  dream   or  summer 
fashion, 
If  ripened,  or  untimely  cast, 


The  harvest  of  thy  toil  and  passion  — 
Thy  sheaf  of  life  —  is  bound  at  last. 

What  scattered  ears  thy  field  encloses, 
What  tares  unweeded,  now  behold  ; 

And  here  the  poppies,  there  the  roses, 
Send  withered  fragrance  through 
the  gold. 

Lo !  as  thou  earnest,  so  thou  goest, 
From  bright   Unknown   to  bright 
Unknown, 
Save    that   the   light    thou  forward 
throwest, 
Was    fainter     then    behind     thee 
thrown. 

Again  be   glad!    through    tears  and 
laughter, 
And    deed    and    failure,   thou  art 
strong : 
Thy  Here  presages  thy  Hereafter, 
And  neither  sphere  shall  do  thee 
wrong ! 

To  mother-breasts  of  nurture  fonder 
Go,  child !  —  once  more  in  beauty 
young  : 

And  hear  our  Vale  /  echoed  yonder 
As  Salve/  in  a  sweeter  tongue  J 


SHEKH  AHNAF'S  LETTER 
FROM  BAGHDAD 

In  Allah's  name,  the  Ever  Merciful, 
The  Most  Compassionate!    To  thee, 

my  friend, 
Ben-Arif ,  peace  and  blessing !    May 

this  scroll, 
A  favored  herald,  tell  thee  in  Tangier 
That  Ahnaf  follows  soon,    if  Allah 

wills ! 
Yes,  after  that  last  day  at  Arafat 
Whereof  I  wrote  thee,  —  after  weary 

moons, 
Delayed  among  the  treacherous  Wa- 

habees,  — 
The    long,    sweet  rest  beneath  Der- 

reyeh's  palms, 
That  cooled  my  body  for  the  burning 

bath 
Of  naked  valleys  in  the  hither  waste 
Beside  Euphrates,  — now  behold  me 

here 


SHEKH   AHNAF'S   LETTER   FROM   BAGHDAD       161 


In    Baghdad!      Here,    and    drinking 

from  the  well 
"Whose  first  pure  waters  fertilized  the 

West! 

I,  as  thou  knowest,    with  both  my 

hands  took  hold 
Of  Law  and  of  Tradition,  so  to  lift 
To  knowledge  and  obedience  my  soul. 
Severe  was    I    accounted  —  but    my 

strength 
"Was  likewise  known  of  all  men  ;  and 

I  craved 
The  sterner  discipline  which  Islam  first 
Endured,  and  knit  the  sinews  of  our 

race. 
What      says      the      Law?— ""Who 

changes  or  perverts, 
Conceals,  rejects,  or  holds  of  small 

account, 
Though    it  were    but    the    slightest 

seeming  word, 
Hath  all  concealed,  perverted,  slight- 
ed ! "    This, 
Thou    knowest,    I    held,    and    hold. 

Here,  I  hoped, 
The  rigid  test  should  gladden  limbs 

prepared 
To  bend,  accept,  and  then  triumphant 

rise. 
Even  as  the  weak  of  faith  rejoice  to 

find 
Some  lax  interpretation,  I  rejoiced 
In  foretaste  of  the  sure  severity. 
As  near  I  drew,   across    the    sandy 

fiats, 
Above  the  palms  the  yellow  minaret 
"Wrote    on    the    sky    my    welcome : 

' '  Ahnaf ,  hail ! 
Here,  in  the  city  of  the  Abbasid, 
Set  thou  thine  evening  by  its  morning 

star 
Of  Faith,  and  bind  the  equal  East 

and  West ! " 

Ah  me,  Ben-Arif!   how  shall  pen  of 

mine 
Set  forth  the  perturbation  of  the  soul  ? 
To  doubt  were  death  ;  not  hope,  were 

much  the  same 
As  not  believe  —  but  Allah  tries  my 

strength 
With  tests    far  other    than  severest 

law. 
When  I  had  bathed,  and  then  had 

cleansed  with  prayer 


My  worn  and  dusty  soul,  (so,  doubly 

pure, 
Pronounced  the  fathah  as  'tis  heard 

in  Heaven), 
I  sought  the  court-yard  of  Alman- 

sour's  mosque, 
Where,  after  asser,  creeping  shadows 

cool 
The  marble,  and  the  shekhs  in  com- 
merce grave 
Keep  fresh  the  ancient  wisdom.     Me 

they  gave 
Reception  kindly,  though  perchance 

I  felt  — 
Or    fancied,    only  —  lack    of    special 

warmth 
For  vows  accomplished  and  my  pil- 
grim zeal. 
"Where    is     Tangier?"     said     one; 

whereat  the  rest 
With  most  indifferent  knowledge  did 

discuss 
The  problem  —  none,   had  they  but 

questioned  me  !  — 
Then  snatched  again  the  theme  they 

half  let  drop, 
And  in  their  heat  forgot  me. 

I,  abashed, 

Sat  listening :  vainly  did  I  prick  mine 
ears. 

I  knew  the  words,  indeed,  but  missed 
therein 

The  wonted  sense:  they  stripped  our 
Holy  Book 

Of  every  verse  which  not  contains  the 
Law, — 

Spake  Justice  and  Forgiveness,  Peace 
and  Love, 

Nor  once  the  duties  of  the  right  hand 
fixed, 

Nor  service  of  the  left :  the  nature  they 

Of  Allah  glorified,  and  not  His  names  : 

Of  customs  and  observances  no  word 

Their  lips  let  fall :  and  I  distinguished 
not, 

Save  by  their  turbans,  that  they  other 
were 

Than  Jews,  or  Christians,  or  the  Pa- 
gans damned. 

Methought  I  dreamed ;  and  in  my 
mind  withdrawn 

At  last  heard  only  the  commingling 
clash 

Of  voices  near  me,  and  the  songs  out- 
side 


162 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


Of  boatmen  on  the  Tigris.     Then  a 

hand 
Came  on  my  shoulder,  and  the  oldest 

shekh, 
White-bearded   Hatem,    spake:    "O 

Ahnaf!  thou 
Art   here  a  stranger,   and  it   scarce 

beseems 
That  we    should   speak  of  weighty 

matters  thus 
To  uninstructed    ears  —  the    less,   to 

thine, 
Which,  filled  so  long  with  idle  sand, 

require 
The    fresh    delight    of    sympathetic 

speech 
That  cools  like  yonder  fountain,  and 

makes  glad. 
Nor  wouldst  thou  hear,    perchance, 

nor  could  we  give 
An  easy  phrase  as  key  to  what  so  long 
Hath  here  been  forged :    but    come 

to-night  with  me 
Where  this  shall  be  applied,  and  more, 

to  bring 
Islam  a  better  triumph  than  the  sword 
Of  Ali  gave  ;  for  that  but  slew  the  foe, 
This  maketh  him  a  friend." 

I,  glad  at  heart 

To  know  my  hope  not  false,  yet  won- 
dering much, 

Gave  eager  promise,  and  at  nightfall 
went 

With  Hatem  to  the  college  of  a  sect 

We  know  not  in  the  West  —  nor  is 
there  need : 

An  ancient  hall  beneath  a  vaulted 
dome, 

With  hanging  lamps  well  lit,  and 
cushioned  seats 

Where  sat  a  grave  and  motley  multi- 
tude. 

When  they  beheld  my  guide,  they  all 
arose, 

And  "Peace  be  with  thee,  Hatem!" 
greeting,  cried. 

He,  whispering  to  me  :  "  O  Ahnaf,  sit 

And  hear,  be  patient,  wonder  if  thou 
wilt, 

But  keep  thy  questions  sagely  to  the 
end, 

When  I  shall  seek  thee  "  —  to  a  dais 
passed, 

And  sat  him  down.  And  all  were 
silent  there 


In  decent  order,  or  in  whispers  spoke  ; 
But  great  my  marvel  was  when  I  be- 
held 
Parsee  and  Jew  and  Christian  —  yea, 

the  race 
Of    Boodh   and    Brahma  —  with   the 

Faithful  mixed 
As  if  't  were  no  defilement !    Lo !  they 

rose 
Again,  with  equal  honor  to  salute 
The   Rabbi   Daood,    Jewest    of   the 

Jews,  — 
And  even  so,  for  an  Armenian  priest ! 
Yet  both  some  elder  prophets  share 

with  us, 
And  it  might  pass  :  but  twice  again 

they  rose,  — 
Once  for  a  Parsee,  tinged  like  smoky 

milk, 
His  hat  a  leaning  tower,  —  and  once, 

a  dark, 
Grave  man,  with  turban  thinner  than 

a  wheel, 
A   wafer   on   his   forehead    (Satan's 

sign !)  — 
A  worshipper  of  Ganges  and  the  cow ! 
These  made  my  knees  to  smite  :  yet 

Hatem  stood 
And  gave  his  hand,  and  they  beside 

him  sat. 

Then  one  by  one  made  speech  ;  and 
what  the  first, 

The  shrill-tongued  Rabbi,  claimed  as 
rule  for  all, 

That  they  accepted.  "Forasmuch," 
(said  he) 

"As  either  of  our  sects  hath  special 
lore 

Which  not  concerns  the  others  —  spe- 
cial signs 

And  marvels  which  the  others  must 
reject, 

However  holy  and  attested  deemed, 

Set  we  all  such  aside,  and  hold  our 
minds 

Alone  to  that  which  in  our  creeds 
hath  power 

To  move,  enlighten,  strengthen,  pu- 
rify, — 

The  God  behind  the  veil  of  miracles  ! 

So  speak  we  to  the  common  brain  of 
each 

And  to  the  common  heart ;  for  what 
of  Truth 

Grows  one  with  life,  is  manifest  to  all, 


SHEKH   AHNAFS    LETTER   FROM    BAGHDAD       163 


Or  Jew,  or  Moslem,  or  whatever  name, 
And  none  deny  it :  test  we  then  how 

much 
This  creed  or  that  hath  power  to  shape 

true  lives." 
All    there    these    words    applauded : 

Hatem  most, 
Who  spake:    "My  acquiescence  lies 

therein, 
That  on  thy  truth,  O  Jew !  I  build  the 

claim 
Of  him,  our  Prophet,  to  authority." 
Then  some  one  near  me,  jeering,  said  : 

"Well  done! 
He  gives  up  Gabriel  and  the  Beast 

Borak ! " 
1 '  Yea,    but  "  —  another    answered  — 

"must  the  Jew 
Not  also  lose  his  Pharaohs  and  his 

plagues, 
His  rams' -horns  and  his  Joshua  and 

the  sun  ? " 
"For  once  the  Christians,"  whispered 

back  a  Jew, 
' '  Must  cease  to  turn  their  water  into 

wine, 
Or  feed  the  multitude  with  five  small 

loaves 
And  two  small  fishes."    Thus  the  peo- 
ple talked  ; 
While    I,    as  one   that    in   a   dream 

appears 
To  eat  the  flesh  of  swine,  and  cannot 

help 
The  loathsome  dream,  awaited  what 

should  come. 

To  me  it  seemed  —  and  doubtless  to 

the  rest, 
Though  heretics  and  pagans  —  as  the 

chiefs 
Who  there  disputed  were  both  maimed 

and  bound, 
So  little  dared  they  offer,  shorn  and 

lopped 
Of  all  their  vigor,  false  as  well  as  true. 
Was  it  of  Islam  that  Shekh  Hatem 

spake, 
With  ringing  tongue  and  fiery  words 

that  forced 
Unwilling  tears  from  Pagan  and  from 

Jew, 
And  cries  of  "Allah  Akhbar  I  "  from 

his  own  ? 
Forsooth,  I  know  not :  he  was  Islam's 

chief. 


How  dared  he  nod  his  head  and  smile, 

to  hear 
The  Jew  declare  his  faith  in  God  the 

Lord, 
The  Christian  preach  of  love  and  sacri- 
fice, 
The  Parsee  and  the  Hindoo  recognize 
The  gifts  of  charity  and  temperance, 
And  peace  and  purity  ?    If  this  be  so, 
And  heretic  and  pagan  crowd  with  us 
The  gates  of  Allah's  perfect  Paradise, 
Why  hath    He    sent    His    Prophet? 

Nay,  —  I  write 
In  anger,  not  in  doubt :  nor  need  I  here 
To  thee,  Ben-Arif,  faithful  man  and 

wise, 
Portray  the  features  of  my  shame  and 
grief. 

Ere    all    had    fully    spoken,   I,   con- 
fused, — 
Hearing  no  word  of  washing  or  of 

prayer. 
Of  cross,  or  ark,  or  fire,  or  symbol  else 
Idolatrous,      obscene,  —  could      only 

guess 
What  creed  was  glorified  before  the 

crowd, 
By  garb  and  accent  of  the  chief  who 

spake  : 
And  scarcely  then  ;  for  oft,  as  one  set 

forth 
His  holiest  duties,   all,  as  with  one 

voice, 
Exclaimed :     ' '  But    also    these    are 

mine  !  "     The  strife 
Was  then,  how  potent  were  they,  how 

observed,  — 
Made  manifest  in  life  ?    One  cannot 

say 
That  such  are  needless,  but  their  sa- 
cred stamp 
Comes  from  observance  of  all  forms 

of  law, 
Which  here  —  the  strength  of  Islam 

—  was  suppressed. 
Their  wrangling  —  scarcely  could  it 

so  be  called !  — 
Was  o'er  the  husks:  the  kernel  of  the 

creed 
They  first  picked  out,  and  flung  it  to 

the  winds. 

I,  pierced  on  every  side  with  sorest 

stings, 
Waited  uneasily  the  end  delayed, 


164 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


When  Hatem  spake  once  more  :   his 

eye  was  bright, 
And  the  long  heard  that  o'er  his  girdle 

rolled 
Shook  as  in  storm.     "Now,  God  be 

praised !  "  he  cried  : 
"  God  ever  merciful,  compassionate, 
Hath  many  children  ;  these  have  many 

tongues  : 
But  of  one  blood  are  they,  one  truth 

they  seek, 
One  law  of  Love  and  Justice  fits  them 

all. 
And  they  have  many  Prophets :  may 

it  be, 
Though  not  of  like  commission,  in  so 

far 
As  they  declare  His  truth,  they  speak 

for  Him ! 
Go  past  their  histories:  accept  their 

souls, 
And  whatsoe'er  of  perfect  and  of  pure 
Is  breathed  from  each,  in  each  and  all 

the  same, 
Confirms  the  others'  office  and  its  own ! 
Here    is  the  centre    of  the    moving 

wheel,  — 
The  point  of  rest,  wheref  rom  the  sepa- 
rate creeds 
Build  out  their  spokes,  that  seem  to 

chase  and  flee, 
Revolving  in  the  marches  of  His  Day ! 
If  one  be  weak,  destroy  it :  if  it  bear 
Unstrained  His  glory  of  Eternal  Truth, 
And  firmer  fibre  from  the  ages  gain, 
Behold,   at  last  it  shall  replace  the 

rest! 
Even  as  He  wills  !  The  bright  solution 

grows 


Nearer  and  clearer  with  the  whirling 

years  : 
Till  finally  the  use  of  outward  signs 
Shall  be  outworn,  the  crumbling  walls 

thrown  down, 
And  one  Religion  shall  make  glad  the 

world!" 

More  I  could  not  endure  :  I  did  not 
wait 

For  Hatem's  coming,  as  he  promised 
me ; 

Yet  —  ere  amid  the  crowds  I  could 
escape  — 

I  saw  the  Rabbi  and  the  Christian 
priest 

Fall  on  his  neck  with  weeping.  With 
a  groan, 

A  horrid  sense  of  smothering  in  my 
throat, 

And  words  I  will  not  write,  I  gained 
the  air, 

And  saw,  O  Prophet !  how  thy  Cres- 
cent shone 

Above  the  feathery  palm-tops,  and  the 
dome 

Of  Haroun's  tomb  upon  the  Tigris' 
bank. 

And  this  is  Baghdad!  —  Eblis,  rather 
say!  — 

O  fallen  city  of  the  Abbasid, 

Where  Islam  is  defiled,  and  by  its  sons ! 

Prepare,  Ben-Arif,  to  receive  thy 
friend, 

Who  with  the  coming  moon  shall  west- 
ward turn 

To  keep  his  faith  undarkened  in  Tan- 
gier! 


NAPOLEON  AT  GOTHA 


We  walk  amid  the  currents  of  actions  left  undone, 
The  germs  of  deeds  that  wither,  before  they  see  the  sun. 
For  every  sentence  uttered,  a  million  more  are  dumb  : 
Men's  lives  are  chains  of  chances,  and  History  their  sum. 


Not  he,  the  Syracusan,  but  each  impurpled  lord 
Must  eat  his  banquet  under  the  hair-suspended  sword  ; 
And  one  swift  breath  of  silence  may  fix  or  change  the  fate 
Of  him  whoiie  force  is  building  the  fabric  of  a  state. 


NAPOLEON   AT   GOTHA  165 


Where  o'er  the  "windy  uplands  the  slated  turrets  shine, 
Duke  August  ruled  at  Gotha.  in  Castle  Friedenstein,  — 
A  handsome  prince  and  courtly,  of  light  and  shallow  heart 
No  better  than  he  should  be,  but  with  a  taste  for  Art. 

IV 

The  fight  was  fought  at  Jena,  eclipsed  was  Prussia's  sun, 
And  by  the  French  invaders  the  land  was  overrun  ; 
But  while  the  German  people  were  silent  in  despair, 
Duke  August  painted  pictures,  and  curled  his  yellow  hair. 


Now.  when  at  Erfurt  gathered  the  ruling  royal  clan, 
Themselves  the  humble  subjects,  their  lord  the  Corsican, 
Each  bade  to  ball  and  banquet  the  sparer  of  his  line  : 
Duke  August  with  the  others,  to  Castle  Friedenstein. 

VI 

Then  were  the  larders  rummaged,  the  forest-stags  were  slain, 
The  tuns  of  oldest  vintage  showered  out  their  golden  rain  ; 
The  towers  were  bright  with  banners,  —  but  all  the  people  said  : 
We,  slaves,  must  feed  our  master,  — would  God  that  he  were  dead  ! 


They  drilled  the  ducal  guardsmen,  men  young  and  straight  and  tall, 
To  form  a  double  column,  from  gate  to  castle-wall  ; 
And  as  there  were  but  fifty,  the  first  must  wheel  away, 
Fall  in  beyond  the  others,  and  lengthen  the  array. 


"  Parbleu  !  "  Napoleon  muttered :  "  Your  Highness'  guards  I  prize, 
So  young  and  strong  and  handsome,  and  all  of  equal  size." 

"You,  Sire,"  replied  Duke  August,  "may  have  as  fine,  if  you 
Will  twice  or  thrice  repeat  them,  as  I  am  forced  to  do  ! " 

IX 

Now,  in  the  Castle  household,  of  all  the  folk,  was  one 
Whose  heart  was  hot  within  him,  the  Ducal  Huntsman's  son  : 
A  proud  and  bright-eyed  stripling  ;  scarce  fifteen  years  he  had, 
But  free  of  hall  and  chamber  :  Duke  August  loved  the  lad. 

x 

He  saw  the  forceful  homage :  he  heard  the  shouts  that  came 
From  base  throats,  or  unwilling,  but  equally  of  shame : 
He  thought :   "  One  man  has  done  it,  — one  life  would  free  the  land, 
But  all  are  slaves  and  cowards,  and  none  will  lift  a  hand  ! 

XI 

"  My  grandsire  hugged  a  bear  to  death,  when  broke  his  hunting-spear, 
And  has  this  little  Frenchman  a  muzzle  I  should  fear  ? 
If  kings  are  cowed,  and  princes,  and  all  the  land  is  scared, 
Perhaps  a  boy  can  show  them  the  thing  they  might  have  dared  !  " 


166  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

XII 

Napoleon  on  the  morrow  was  coming  once  again, 
(And  all  the  castle  knew  it)  without  his  courtly  train ; 
And,  when  the  stairs  were  mounted,  there  was  no  other  road 
But  one  long,  lonely  passage,  to  where  the  Duke  abode. 

xin 

None  guessed  the  secret  purpose  the  silent  stripling  kept : 
Deep  in  the  night  he  waited,  and,  when  his  father  slept, 
Took  from  the  rack  of  weapons  a  musket  old  and  tried, 
And  cleaned  the  lock  and  barrel,  and  laid  it  at  his  side. 

xrv 

He  held  it  fast  in  slumber,  he  lifted  it  in  dreams 
Of  sunlit  mountain-forests  and  stainless  mountain- streams ; 
And  in  the  morn  he  loaded  —  the  load  was  bullets  three: 
"For  Deutschland  —  for  Duke  August —  and  now  the  third  for  me! " 

xv 

"  What!  ever  wilt  be  hunting  ?  "  the  stately  Marshal  cried ; 

"I'll  fetch  a  stag  of  twenty  !  "  the  pale-faced  boy  replied, 
As,  clad  in  forest  color,  he  sauntered  through  the  court, 
And  said,  when  none  could  hear  him  :   ' '  Now,  may  the  time  be  short ! 

XVI 

The  corridor  was  vacant,  the  windows  full  of  sun ; 

He  stole  within  the  midmost,  and  primed  afresh  his  gun  ; 

Then  stood,  with  all  his  senses  alert  in  ear  and  eye 

To  catch  the  lightest  signal  that  showed  the  Emperor  nigh. 

XVII 

A  sound  of  wheels  :  a  silence  :  the  muffled  sudden  jar 
Of  guards  their  arms  presenting  :  a  footstep  mounting  far, 
Then  nearer,  briskly  nearer,  —  a  footstep,  and  alone! 
And  at  the  farther  portal  appeared  Napoleon  ! 


Alone,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  firm  and  massive  head 
With  brooded  plans  uplifted,  he  came  with  measured  tread: 
And  yet,  those  feet  had  shaken  the  nations  from  their  poise, 
And  yet,  that  will  to  shake  them  depended  on  the  boy's  ! 


With  finger  on  the  trigger,  the  gun  held  hunter-wise, 
His  rapid  heart-beats  sending  the  blood  to  brain  and  eyes, 
The  boy  stood,  firm  and  deadly,  —  another  moment's  space, 
And  then  the  Emperor  saw  him,  and  halted,  face  to  face. 


A  mouth  as  cut  in  marble,  an  eye  that  pierced  and  stung 
As  might  a  god's,  all-seeing,  the  soul  of  one  so  young : 
A  look  that  read  his  secret,  that  lamed  his  callow  will, 
That  inly  smiled,  and  dared  him  his  purpose  to  fulfil ! 


THE   ACCOLADE 


167 


XXI 


As  one  a  serpent  trances,  the  boy,  forgetting  all, 

Felt  but  that  face,  nor  noted  the  harmless  musket's  fall; 

Nor  breathed,  nor  thought,  nor  trembled ;  but,  pale  and  cold  as  stone, 

Saw  pass,  nor  look  behind  him,  the  calm  Napoleon. 


XXII 


And  these  two  kept  their  secret ;  but  from  that  day  began 
The  sense  of  fate  and  duty  that  made  the  boy  a  man  ; 
And  long  he  lived  to  tell  it,  —  and,  better,  lived  to  say  : 
God's  purposes  were  grander  :  He  thrust  me  from  His  way  ! 


THE  ACCOLADE 


Under  the  lamp  in  the  tavern  yard 
The   beggars  and    thieves  were 
met ; 
Ruins  of  lives  that  were  evil-starred, 
Battered  bodies  and  faces  hard, 
A  loveless  and  lawless  set. 

11 

The  cans  were  full,  if  the  scrip  was 
lean  ; 
A  fiddler  played  to  the  crowd 
The  high-pitched  lilt  of  a  tune  obscene, 
When  there  entered  the  gate,  in  gar- 
ments mean, 
A  stranger  tall  and  proud. 


There  was  danger  in  their  doubting 
eyes ; 
"  Now  who  are  you  ?  "  they  said. 
"One  who  has  been  more  wild  than 

wise, 
Who  has  played  with  force  and  fed  on 
lies, 
As  you  on  your  mouldy  bread. 


"The  false  have  come  to  me,  high 
and  low, 
Where  I  only  sought  the  true  : 
I  am  sick  of  sham  and  sated   with 

show ; 
The  honest  evil  I  fain  would  know, 
In  the  license  here  with  you." 


"  He  shall  go  !  "  "He  shall  stay  ! "  In 
hot  debate 
Their  whims  and  humors  ran, 


When  Jack  o'  the  Strong  Arm  square 

and  straight 
Stood  up,  like  a  man  whose  word  is 

fate, 
A  reckless  and  resolute  man. 

VI 

"  Why  brawl,"  said  he,  "at  so  slight 
a  thing  ? 
Are  fifty  afraid  of  one  ? 
We  have  taken  a  stranger  into  our  ring 
Ere  this,  and  made  him  in  sport  our 
king ; 
So  let  it  to-night  be  done  ! 

VII 

"  Fetch  him  a  crown  of  tinsel  bright, 

For  sceptre  a  tough  oak-staff  ; 
And  who  most  serves  to  the  King's 

delight, 
The  King  shall  dub  him  his  own  true 
knight, 
And     I    swear    the    King    shall 
laugh!" 

VTII 

They  brought  him  a  monstrous  tinsel 
crown, 
They  put  the  staff  in  his  hand  ; 
There  was  wrestling  and  racing  up 

and  down, 
There  was  song  of  singer  and  jest  of 
clown, 
There  was  strength  and  sleight-of- 
hand. 

IX 

The  King,  he  pledged  them  with  clink 

of  can, 
He  laughed  with  a  royal  glee  ; 
There  was  dull    mistrust  when   the 

sports  began, 


i68 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


There  was  roaring  mirth  when  the 
rearmost  man 
Gave  out,  and  the  ring  was  free. 


For  Jack  o'  the  Strong  Arm  strove 
with  a  will, 
With  the  wit  and  the  strength  of 
four; 
There  was  never  a  part  he  dared  not  fill, 
Wrestler,  and  singer,  and  clown,  until 
The  motley  struggle  was  o'er. 


And  ever  he  turned  from  the  deft  sur- 
prise, 
And  ever  from  strain  or  thrust, 
With  a  dumb  appeal  in  his  laughing 

guise, 
And  gazed  on  the  King  with  wistful 
eyes, 
Panting,  and  rough  with  dust. 

XII 

"Kneel,   Jack  o'  the   Strong   Arm! 
Our  delight 
Hath  most  been  due  to  thee," 
Said  the  King,  and  stretched  his  rapier 

bright : 
"Rise,  Sir  John  Armstrong,  our  true 
knight, 
Bold,  fortunate,  and  free ! " 


Jack  o'   the  Strong  Arm  knelt  and 
bowed, 
To  meet  the  christening  blade  ; 
He  heard  the  shouts  of  the  careless 

crowd, 
And  murmured  something,  as  though 
he  vowed, 
When  he  felt  the  accolade. 


He  kissed  the  King's  hand  tenderly, 
Full  slowly  then  did  rise, 

And  within  him  a  passion  seemed  to  be; 

For  his  choking  throat  they  all  could 
see, 
And  the  strange  tears  in  his  eyes. 

xv 

From  his  massive  breast  the  rags  he 
threw, 
He  threw  them  from  body  and 
limb, 


Till,  bare  as  a  new-born  babe  to  view, 
He  faced  them,  no  longer  the  man 
they  knew : 
They  silently  stared  at  him. 


"  O  King ! "  he  said,  "thou  wert  King, 
I  knew  ; 
I  am  verily  knight,  O  King  ! 
What  thou  hast  done  thou  canst  not 

undo; 
Thou  hast  come  to  the  false  and  found 
the  true 
In  the  carelessly  ventured  thing. 

XVII 

"As  I  cast  away  these  rags  I  have 
worn, 
The  life  that  was  in  them  I  cast ; 
Take  me,  naked  and  newly  born, 
Test  me  with  power  and  pride  and 
scorn, 
I  shall  be  true  to  the  last ! " 

XVIII 

His  large,  clear  eyes  were  weak  as  he 
spoke, 
But    his    mouth    was    firm    and 
strong ; 
And  a  cry  from  the  thieves  and  beg- 
gars broke, 
As  the  King  took  off  his  own  wide 
cloak 
And  covered  him  from  the  throng. 
• 

xrx 

He  gave  him  his  royal  hand  in  their 
sight, 
And  he  said,  before  the  ring  : 
"Come  with  me,  Sir  John!     Be  leal 

and  right ; 
If  I  have  made  thee  all  of  a  knight, 
Thou  hast  made  me  more  of  a 
king ! " 

1871. 


ERIC  AND  AXEL 


Though  they  never  divided  my  meat 

or  wine, 
Yet  Eric  and  Axel  are  friends  of  mine  ; 
Never  shared  my  sorrow,  nor  laughed 

with  my  glee, 
Yet  Eric  and  Axel  are  dear  to  me ; 


ERIC   AND   AXEL 


169 


And  faithf uller  comrades  no  man  ever 

knew 
Than  Eric  and  Axel,  the  fearless,  the 

true! 


When  I  hit  the  target,  they  feel  no 

pride; 
When  I  spin  with  the  waltzers,  they 

wait  outside  ; 
When  the  holly  of  Yule-tide  hangs  in 

the  hall, 
And  kisses  are  freest,  they  care  not  at 

all; 
When  I  sing,  they  are  silent ;  I  speak, 

they  obey, 
Eric  and  Axel,  mj  hope  and  my  stay ! 

in 
They  wait  for  my  coming  ;  they  know 

I  shall  come, 
When  the  dancers  are  faint  and  the 

fiddlers  numb, 
With  a  shout  of   ' '  Ho,   Eric ! "  and 

' '  Axel,  ho !  " 
As  we  skim  the  wastes  of  the  Norrland 

snow, 
And  their  frozen  breath  to  a  silvery 

gray 
Turns  Eric's  raven  and  Axel's  bay. 


By  the  bondehus  and  the  herregoard, 

O'er  the  glassy  pavement  of  frith  and 
fiord, 

Through  the  tall  fir- woods,  that  like 
steel  are  drawn 

On  the  broadening  red  of  the  rising 
dawn, 

Till  one  low  roof,  where  the  hills  un- 
fold, 

Shelters  us  all  from  the  angry  cold. 


I  tell  them  the  secret  none  else  shall 

hear; 
I  love  her,  Eric,  I  love  my  dear ! 


I   love   her,    Axel ;    wilt   love   her, 

too, 
Though  her  eyes  are  dark  and  mine 

are  blue  ? 
She  has  eyes  like  yours,  so  dark  and 

clear : 
Eric  and  Axel  will  love  my  dear ! 


They  would  speak  if  they  could ;  but 

I  think  they  know 
Where,  when  the  moon  is  thin,  they 

shall  go, 
To  wait  awhile  in  the  sleeping  street, 
To    hasten   away    upon    snow -shod 

feet,  — 
Away  and  away,   ere    the    morning 

star 
Touches  the  tops  of  the  spires  of  Cal- 

mar  ! 


Per,   the  merchant,  may  lay  at  her 

feet 
His  Malaga  wine  and  his  raisins  sweet, 
Brought  in  his  ships  from  Portugal 

land, 
And  I  am  as  bare  as  the  palm  of  my 

hand  ; 
But  she  sighs  for  me,  and  she  sighs  for 

you, 
Eric  and  Axel,  my  comrades  true  1 

VIII 

You   care    not,   Eric,   for    gold   and 

wine; 
You  care  not,   Axel,    for  show  and 

shine  ; 
But  you  care  for  the  touch  of  the  hand 

that 's  dear, 
And  the  voice  that  fondles  you  through 

the  ear, 
And  you  shall  save  us,  through  storm 

and  snow, 
When  she  calls:    "Ho,   Eric!"  and 

"Axel,  ho!" 
1871. 


THE   PICTURE   OF  ST.  JOHN 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 

Although  "  The  Picture  of  St.  John"  was  published  in  1866,  the  concep- 
tion of  the  poem  dates  from  a  much  earlier  period.  The  writing  of  it  was 
begun  in  1850  ;  four  years  later,  however,  it  had  advanced  but  very  little. 
Then  it  rested  altogether,  until  in  1863  it  presented  itself  once  more,  and  in  a 
matured  shape,  to  the  poet's  mind.  During  the  latter  year  and  the  two  fol- 
lowing work  on  it  continued  more  or  less  steadily,  and  when  in  the  late  sum- 
mer of  1865  the  last  stanza  was  penned,  the  author  turned  again  to  the  begin- 
ning, and  re-wrote  that  part  of  the  poem  which  owed  its  origin  to  the  earliest 
time. 

In  1880,  when,  after  the  poet's  death,  "The  Picture  of  St.  John"  was 
included  in  the  Household  Edition,  a  number  of  stanzas  here  and  there  (forty- 
seven  of  them  in  all)  were  omitted  for  the  first  time.  This  was  done  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  author's  intention,  as  marked  by  himself  in  his  own  copy 
of  the  published  poem. 


INTKODUCTOKY  NOTE 

In  regard  to  the  subject  of  this  poem  I  have  nothing  to  say.  It  grew  nat- 
urally out  of  certain  developments  in- my  own  mind  ;  and  the  story,  unsug- 
gested  by  any  legend  or  detached  incident  whatever,  shaped  itself  to  suit  the 
theme.  The  work  of  time,  written  only  as  its  own  necessity  prompted,  and 
finished  with  the  care  and  conscience  which  such  a  venture  demands,  I  sur- 
render it  to  the  judgment  of  the  reader. 

The  form  of  the  stanza  which  I  have  adopted,  however,  requires  a  word 
of  explanation.  I  have  endeavored  to  strike  a  middle  course  between  the 
almost  inevitable  monotony  of  an  unvarying  stanza,  in  a  poem  of  this  length, 
and  the  loose  character  which  the  heroic  measure  assumes  when  arbitrarily 
.rhymed,  without  the  check  of  regularly  recurring  divisions.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  this  object  might  be  best  accomplished  by  adhering  rigidly  to  the  mea- 
sure and  limit  of  the  stanza,  yet  allowing  myself  freedom  of  rhyme  within 
that  limit.  The  ottava  rima  is  undoubtedly  better  adapted  for  the  purposes 
of  a  romantic  epic  than  either  the  Spenserian  stanza  or  the  heroic  couplet ; 
but  it  needs  the  element  of  humor  (as  in  Byron's  "Don  Juan")  to  relieve  its 
uniform  sweetness.  On-  the  other  hand,  the  proper  compactness  and  strength 
of  rhythm  can  with  difficulty  be  preserved  in  a  poem  where  all  form  of  stanza 
is  discarded.  My  aim  has  been,  as  far  as  possible,  to  combine  the  advantages 
and  lessen  the  objections  of  both. 

I  know  of  but  one  instance  in  which  the  experiment  has  been  even  partially 
tried, — the  "Oberon"  of  Wieland,  wherein  the  rhymes  are  wilfully  varied, 
and  sometimes  the  measure,  the  stanza  almost  invariably  closing  with  an 
Alexandrine.  In  the  present  case,  I  have  been  unable  to  detect  any  prohibi- 
tory rule  in  the  genius  of  our  language  ;  and  the  only  doubt  which  suggested 
itself  to  my  mind  was  that  the  ear,  becoming  swiftly  accustomed  to  the  ar- 
rangement of  rhyme  in  one  stanza,  might  expect  to  find  it  reproduced  in  the 
next.  I  believe,  however,  that  such  disappointment,  if  it  should  now  and 
then  occur,  will  be  very  transitory,  —  that  even  an  unusually  delicate  ear  will 
soon  adjust  itself  to  the  changing  order,  and  find  that  the  varied  harmony  at 
which  I  have  aimed  (imperfectly  as  I  may  have  succeeded)  compensates  for 
the  lack  of  regularity.  At  times,  I  confess,  the  temptation  to  close  with  an 
Alexandrine  was  very  great ;  but  it  was  necessary  to  balance  the  one  apparent 
license  by  a  rigid  adherence  to  the  customary  form  in  all  other  respects. 
Hence,  also,  I  have  endeavored,  as  frequently  as  possible,  to  use  but  three 
rhymes  in  a  stanza,  in  order  to  strengthen  my  experiment  with  an  increased 
effect  of  melody.  I  have  found,  since  the  completion  of  the  poem,  that  it 
contains  more  than  seventy  variations  in  the  order  of  rhyme,  not  all  of  which, 
of  course,  can  be  pronounced  equally  agreeable  :  nor  does  this  freedom  in- 
volve less  labor  than  a  single  form  of  stanza,  because  the  variations  must 
be  so  arranged  as  to  relieve  and  support  each  other.  My  object  has  been,  not 
to  escape  the  laws  which  Poetry  imposes,  but  to  select  a  form  which  gives 
greater  appearance  of  unrestrained  movement,  and  more  readily  reflects  the 
varying  moods  of  the  poem. 


PROEM 
TO  THE  ARTISTS 


Because  no  other  dream  my  childhood  knew 
Than  your  bright  Goddess  sends,  —  that  earliest 
Her  face  I  saw,  and  from  her  bounteous  breast, 
All  others  dry,  the  earliest  nurture  drew ; 
And  since  the  hope,  so  lovely,  was  not  true, 
To  write  my  life  in  colors,  —  win  a  place 
Among  your  ranks,  though  humble,  yet  with  grace 
That  might  accord  me  brotherhood  with  you : 


Because  the  dream,  thus  cherished,  gave  my  life 
Its  first  faint  sense  of  beauty,  and  became. 
Even  when  the  growing  years  to  other  strife 
Led  forth  my  feet,  a  shy,  secluded  flame : 
And  ye  received  me,  when  our  pathways  met, 
As  one  long  parted,  but  of  kindred  fate  ; 
And  in  one  heaven  our  kindred  stars  are  set ; 
To  you,  my  Brethren,  this  be  dedicate ! 

in 
And  though  some  sportive  nymph  the  channel  turned, 
And  led  to  other  fields  mine  infant  rill, 
The  sense  of  fancied  destination  still 
Leaps  in  its  waves,  and  will  not  be  unlearned. 
I  charge  not  Fate  with  having  done  me  wrong  ; 
Much  hath  she  granted,  though  so  much  was  spurned 
But  leave  the  keys  of  Color,  silent  long, 
And  pour  my  being  through  the  stops  of  Song  ! 

IV 

Even  as  one  breath  the  organ-pipe  compels 

To  yield  that  note  which  through  the  minster  swells 

In  chorded  thunder,  and  the  hollow  lyre 

Beneath  its  gentler  touches  to  awake 

The  airy  monotones  that  fan  desire, 

And  thrills  the  fife  with  blood  of  battle,  —  so 

Our  natures  from  one  source  their  music  take, 

And  side  by  side  to  one  far  Beauty  flow ! 


And  I  have  measured,  in  fraternal  pride, 
Your  reverence,  your  faith,  your  patient  power 
Of  stern  self-abnegation  ;  and  have  tried 
The  range  between  your  brightest,  darkest  hour, 


178  THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 

The  path  of  chill  neglect,  and  that  so  fair 
With  praise  upspringing  like  a  wind-sown  flower : 
But,  whether  thorns  or  amaranths  ye  wear, 
Your  speech  is  mine,  your  sacrifice,  your  prayer ! 

Permit  me,  therefore,  ye  who  nearest  stand, 
Among  the  worthiest,  and  kindliest  known 
In  contact  of  our  lives,  to  take  the  hand 
Whose  grasp  assures  me  I  am  not  alone  ; 
For  thus  companioned,  I  shall  find  the  tone 
Of  flowing  song,  and  all  my  breath  command. 
Your  names  I  veil  from  those  who  should  not  see, 
Not  from  yourselves,  my  Friends,  and  not  from  me  ! 

VII 

You,  underneath  whose  brush  the  autumn  day 
Draws  near  the  sunset  which  it  never  finds,  — 
Whose  art  the  smoke  of  Indian  Summer  binds 
Beyond  the  west-wind's  power  to  breathe  away : 
Who  fix  the  breakers  in  their  gifted  grace 
And  stretch  the  sea-horizon,  dim  and  gray, 
I  '11  call  you  Opal,  —  so  your  tints  enchase 
The  pearly  atmospheres  wherein  they  play. 

vm 

And  you,  who  love  the  brown  October  field, 

The  lingering  leaves  that  flutter  as  they  cling, 

And  each  forlorn  but  ever-lovely  thing,  — 

To  whom  elegiac  Autumn  hath  revealed 

Her  sweetest  dirges,  Bloodstone  :  for  the  hue 

Of  sombre  meadows  to  your  palette  cleaves, 

And  lowering  skies,  with  sunlight  breaking  through, 

And  flecks  of  crimson  on  the  scattered  leaves  ! 

IX 

You,  Topaz,  clasp  the  full-blown  opulence 
Of  Summer :  many  a  misty  mountain-range 
Or  smoky  valley,  specked  with  warrior-tents, 
Basks  on  your  canvas :  then,  with  grander  change, 
We  climb  to  where  your  mountain  twilight  gleams 
In  spectral  pomp,  or  nurse  the  easeful  sense 
Which  through  your  Golden  Day  forever  dreams 
By  lakes  and  sunny  hills,  and  falling  streams. 

x 

You  banish  color  from  your  cheerful  cell, 

O  Paros  !  but  a  stern  imperial  form 

Stands  in  the  marble  moonlight  where  you  dwell, 

A  Poet's  head,  with  grand  Ionian  beard, 

And  Phidian  dreams,  that  shine  against  the  storm 

Of  toilful  life,  the  white  robe  o'er  them  cast 

Of  breathless  Beauty  :  yours  the  art,  endeared 

To  men  and  gods,  first  born,  enduring  last. 


PROEM  179 


XI 

You,  too,  whom  how  to  name  I  may  not  guess, 

Except  the  jacinth  and  the  ruby,  blent, 

The  native  warmth  of  life  might  represent, 

Which,  drawn  from  barns  and  homesteads,  you  express, 

Or  vintage  revels,  round  the  maple-tree  ; 

Or  when  the  dusky  race  you  quaintly  dress 

In  art  that  gives  them  finer  liberty,  — 

Made  by  your  pencil,  ere  by  battle,  free ! 

XII 

Where'er  my  feet  have  strayed,  whatever  shore 

I  visit,  there  your  venturous  footprints  cling. 

From  Chimborazo  unto  Labrador 

One  sweeps  the  Continent  with  eagle  wing, 

To  dip  his  brush  in  tropic  noon,  or  fires 

Of  Arctic  night ;  one  sets  his  seal  upon 

Far  Colorado's  cleft,  colossal  spires, 

And  lone,  snow-kindled  cones  of  Oregon! 

XIII 

Another  through  the  mystic  moonlight  floats 
That  silvers  Venice  ;  and  another  sees 
The  blazoned  galleys  and  the  gilded  boats 
Bring  home  her  Doges  :  Andalusian  leas, 
Gray  olive-slopes,  and  mountains  sun-embrowned 
Entice  another,  and  from  ruder  ground 
Of  old  Westphalian  homes  another  brings 
Enchanted  memories  of  the  meanest  things. 


To  each  and  all,  the  hand  of  fellowship ! 
A  poet's  homage  (should  that  title  fall 
From  other  lips  than  mine)  to  each  and  all ! 
For,  whether  this  pale  star  of  Song  shall  dip 
To  swift  forgetfulness,  or  burn  beside 
Accepted  lamps  of  Art's  high  festival, 
Its  flame  was  kindled  at  our  shrines  allied, 
In  double  faith,  and  from  a  twofold  call ! 
August  30,  1865. 


THE    PICTURE    OF   ST.  JOHN 


BOOK  I 


THE  ARTIST 


Complete  the  altar  stands  :  my  task 

is  done. 
Awhile  from  sacred  toil  and    silent 

prayer 
I  rest,  and  never  shone  the  vale  so  fair 
As  now,  beneath  the  mellow  autumn 

sun, 
And  overbreathed  by  tinted  autumn 

air! 
In  drowsy  murmurs  slide  the  mountain 

rills, 
And,  save  of  light,  the  whole  wide 

heaven  is  bare 
Above  the  happy  slumber  of  the  hills. 

ii 

Here,  as  a  traveller  whose  feet  have 
clomb 

A  weary  mountain-slope,  may  choose 
his  seat, 

And  resting,  track  the  ways  that  he 
hath  come,  — 

The  broken  landscapes,  level  far  be- 
low, 

The  turf  that  kissed,  the  flints  that  tore 
his  feet, 

And  each  dim  speck  that  once  was 
bliss  or  woe,  — 

I  breathe  a  space,  between  two  sun- 
dered lives, 

And  view  what  now  is  ended,  what 
survives. 

in 
Such  as  I  am,  I  am  :  in  soul  and  sense 
Distinct,  existing  in  my  separate  right, 
And  though  a    Power,   beyond    my 

clouded  sight, 
Spun  from  a  thousand  gathered  fila- 
ments 


My  cord  of  life,  within  its  inmost 
core 

That  life  is  mine :  its  torture,  its  de- 
light, 

Repeat  not  those  that  ever  were  be- 
fore 

Or  ever  shall  be :  mine  are  Day  and 
Night. 


God  gives  to  most  an  order  which  sup- 
plies 

Their  passive  substance,  and  they 
move  therein. 

To  some  He  grants  the  beating  wings 
that  rise 

In  endless  aspiration,  till  they  win 

An  awful  vision  of  a  deeper  sin 

And  loftier  virtue,  other  earth  and 
skies : 

And  those  their  common  help  from 
each  may  draw, 

But  these  must  perish,  save  they  find 
the  law. 


Vain  to  evade  and  useless  to  bewail 
My  fortune !     One  among  the  scattered 

few 
Am  I :  by  sharper  lightning,  sweeter 

dew 
Refreshed  or  blasted,  —  on  a  wilder 

gale 
Caught  up    and  whirled  aloft,    till, 

hither  borne, 
My  story  pauses.      Ere  I  drop  the 

veil 
Once  let  me  take  the  Past  in  calm  re- 
view, 
Then  eastward   turn,    and  front  the 

riper  morn. 


l82 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


What  sire  begat  me,  and  what  mother 

nursed. 
What  hills  the  blue  frontiers  of  Earth 

I  thought, 
Or  how  my  young  ambition  scaled 

them  first, 
It  matters  not :  but  I  was  finely  wrought 
Beyond  their  elements  from  whom  I 

came. 
A  nimbler  life  informed  mine  infant 

frame  : 
The  gauzy  wings  some  Psyche-fancy 

taught 
To  flutter,  soulless  custom  could  not 

tame. 

VII 

Our  state  was  humble,  —  yet  above 

the  dust, 
If  deep  below  the  stars,  —  the  state 

that  feeds 
Impatience,  hinting  yet  denying  needs, 
And  thus,  on  one  side  ever  forward 

thrust 
And  on  the  other  cruelly  repressed, 
My  nature  grew,  —  a  wild-flower  in 

the  weeds,  — 
And  hurt  by  ignorant  love,  that  fain 

had  blessed, 
I  sought  some  other  bliss  wherein  to 

rest. 

VIII 

And,  wandering  forth,   a  child  that 

could  not  know 
The  thing  for  which  he  pined,  in  som- 
bre woods 
And  echo-haunted  mountain-solitudes 
I  learned  a  rapture  from  the  blended 

show 
Of  form  and  color,  felt  the  soul  that 

broods 
In  lonely  scenes,  the  moods  that  come 

and  go 
O'er  wayward    Nature,   making    her 

the  haunt 
Of    Art's  forerunner,   Love's  eternal 

want. 

IX 

Long  ere  the  growing  instinct  reached 

my  hand, 
It  filled  my  brain:  a  pang  of  joy  was 

born, 
When,  soft  as  dew,  across  the  dewy  land 


Of  Summer,  leaned  the  crystal-hearted 
Morn ; 

And  when  the  lessening  day  shone 
yellow-cold 

On  fallow  glebe  and  stubble,  I  would 
stand 

And  feel  a  dumb  despair  its  wings  un- 
fold, 

And  wring  my  hands,  and  weep  as  one 
forlorn. 


At  first  in  play,  but  soon  with  heat  and 

stir 
Of  joy  that  hails  discovered  power,  I 

tried 
To  mimic  form,  and  taught  mine  eye 

to  guide 
The  unskilled  fingers.     Praise  became 

a  spur 
To  overtake  success,  for  in  that  vale 
The  simple  people's  wonder  did  not 

fail, 
Nor  vulgarprophecies,whichyet  confer 
The  first  delicious  thrills  of  faith  and 

pride. 


So,  as  on  shining  pinions  lifted  o'er 
The  perilous  bridge  of  boyhood,  I  ad- 
vanced. 
In    warmer    air    the  misty  Maenads 

danced, 
And   Sirens   sang   on  many   a  rising 

shore, 
And  Glory's  handmaids  beckoned  me 

to  choose 
The  freshest  of  the  unworn  wreaths 

they  bore  ; 
So  gracious  Fortune  showed,  so  fair 

the  hues 
Wherewith  she  paints  her  cloud-built 

avenues ! 

XII 

Ere  up  through  all  this  airy  ecstasy 
The   clamorous  pulses  of  the  senses 

beat, 
And  half  the  twofold  man,  maturing 

first, 
Usurped  its  share  of  life,  and  bade  me 

see 
The  ways  of  pleasure  opening  for  my 

feet, 
I  stood  alone  :  the  tender  breast  that 

nursed. 


The  loins  from  whence  I  sprang 

were  cold, 
And  mine  the  humble  roof,  the  scanty 

gold. 


The  pale,  cold  azure  of  my  mountain 

sky 
Became  a  darkness :  Arber's  head  un- 
shorn 
Xo  temple  crowned,  —  not  here  could 

fame  be  born ; 
And,  nor  with   gold  nor  knowledge 

weighted,"! 
Set  forth,  and  o'er  the  green  Bavarian 

land, 
A  happy  wanderer,  fared:  the  hour 

was  nigh 
"When,  in  the  home  of  Art,  my  feet 

should  stand 
"Where  Time  and  Power  have  kissed 

the  Painter's  hand ! 

XIV 

Oh,  sweet  it  was,  when,  from  that 
bleak  abode 

Where  avalanches  grind  the  pines  to 
dust, 

And  crouching  glaciers  down  the  hol- 
lows thrust 

Their  glittering  claws,  I  took  the  sun- 
ward road, 

Making  my  guide  the  torrent,  that 
before 

My  steps  ran  shouting,  giddy  with  its 

joy. 

And  tossed    its  white  hands  like   a 

gamesome  boy, 
And  sprayed  its  rainbow  frolics  o'er 

and  o'er! 


Full-orbed,  in  rosy  dusk,  the  perfect 

moon 
That    evening    shone:     the    torrent's 

noise,  afar, 
Xo  longer  menaced,  but  with  mellow 

tune 
Sang  to  the  twinkle  of  a  silver  star, 
Above  the  opening  valley.     ' '  Italy !  " 
The  moon,  the  star,  the  torrent,  said 

to  me,  — 
"Sleep  thou  in  peace,  the  morning 

will  unbar 
These  Alpine   eates,    and    give    thy 

world  to  thee  !  " 


THE   ARTIST 

alike 


183 


And  morning  did  unfold  the  jutting 
capes 

Of  chestnut-wooded  hills,  that  held 
embayed 

Warm  coves  of  fruit,  the  pine's  JSo- 
lian  shade, 

Or  pillared  bowers,  blue  with  sus- 
pended grapes  ;  — 

A  land  whose  forms  some  livelier 
grace  betraj^ed  ; 

Where  motion  sang  and  cheerful  color 
laughed, 

And  only  gloomed,  amid  the  dancing 
shapes 

Of  vine  and  bough,  the  pointed  cy- 
press-shaft ! 

xvn 

On,  — on,    through    broadening   vale 

and  brightening  sun 
I  walked,  and  hoary  in  their  old  repose 
The  olives  twinkled:  many  a  terrace 

rose, 
With  marbles  crowned   and   jasmine 

overrun, 
And  orchards  where  the   ivory   silk- 
worm spun. 
On  leafy  palms  outspread,  its  pulpy 

fruit 
The  fig-tree  held  ;  and  last,  the  charm 

to  close, 
A  dark-eyed  shepherd  piped  a  reedy 

flute. 

XVIII 

My  heart  beat  loud :  I  walked  as  in  a 

dream 
Where  simplest  actions,  touched  with 

marvel,  seem 
Enchanted  yet  familiar:  for  I  knew 
The  orchards,  terraces,  and  breathing 

flowers, 
The  tree  from  Adam's  garden,  and 

the  blue 
Sweet    sky  behind    the    light  aerial 

towers ; 
And  that  young  faun  that  piped,  had 

piped  before,  — 
I  knew  my  home :  the  exile  now  was 

o'er ! 

XIX 

And  when  the  third  rich  day  declined 

his  lids, 
I  floated  where  the  emerald  waters  fold 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


Gem-gardens,  fairy  island-pyramids, 
Whereon  the  orange  hangs  his  globes 

of  gold,  — 
Which  aloes  crown  with  white,  colos- 
sal plume, 
Above  the  beds  where  lavish  Nature 

bids 
Her  sylphs  of  odor  endless  revel  hold, 
Her  zones  of  flowers  in  balmy  con- 
gress bloom ! 

xx 

I  hailed  them  all,  and  hailed  beyond, 
the  plain  ; 

The  palace-fronts,  on  distant  hills  up- 
lift, 

White  as  the  morning-star;  the 
streams  that  drift 

In  sandy  channels  to  the  Adrian  main : 

Till  one  still  eve,  with  duplicated  stain 

Of  crimson  sky  and  wave,  disclosed 
to  me 

The  domes  of  Venice,  anchored  on  the 
sea, 

Far-off,  —  an  airy  city  of  the  brain ! 


Forth  from  the  shores  of  Earth  we 

seemed  to  float, 
Drawn  by  that  vision,  —  hardly  felt 

the  breeze 
That  left  one  glassy  ripple  from  the 

boat 
To  break  the  smoothness  of  the  silken 

seas ; 
And  far  and  near,  as  from  the  lucent 

air, 
Came  vesper  chimes  and  wave-born 

melodies. 
So  might  one  die,  if  Death  his  soul 

could  bear 
So  gently,  Heaven  before  him  float  so 

fair! 

XXII 

This  was  the  gate  to  Artists'  Fairy- 
land. 

The  palpitating  waters  kissed  the 
shores, 

Gurgled  in  sparkling  coils  beneath  the 
oars, 

And  lapped  the  marble  stairs  on  either 
hand, 

Summoning  Beauty  to  her  holiday  : 

While  noiseless  gondolas  at  palace- 
doors 


Waited,   and    over   all,   in  charmed 

delay, 
San  Marco's  moon  gazed    from  her 

golden  stand ! 

XXIII 

A  silent  city !    where  no  clattering 

wheels 
Jar  the  white    pavement:    cool    the 

streets,  and  dumb, 
Save  for  a  million  whispering  waves, 

which  come 
To  light  their  mellow  darkness :  where 

the  peals 
Of  Trade's  harsh  clarions  never  vex 

the  ear, 
But  the  wide  blue  above,  the  green 

below, 
Her     pure     Palladian     palaces     in- 

sphere,  — 
Piles,  on  whose  steps  the  grass  shall 

never  grow  ! 

XXIV 

I  sat  within  the  courts  of  Veronese 
And  saw  his  figures  breathe  luxurious 

air, 
And  felt  the  sunshine  of  their  lustrous 

hair. 
Beneath  the  shade  of  Titian's  awful 

trees 
I  stood,  and  watched  the  Martyr's  brow 

grow  cold  : 
Then  came  Giorgione,  with  his  brush 

of  gold, 
To  paint   the  dames  that  make  his 

memory  fair,  — 
The  happy  dames  that  never  shall  be 

old! 

XXV 

But  most  I  lingered  in  that  matchless 

hall 
Where  soars  Madonna  with  adoring 

arms 
Outspread,    while    deepening   glories 

round  her  fall, 
And    every    feature    of    her    mortal 

charms 
Becomes  immortal,  at  the  Father's  call : 
Beneath   her,    silver-shining    cherubs 

fold 
The  clouds  that  bear  her,  slowly  hea- 
venward rolled  : 
The  Sacred  Mystery  broodeth    over 

all! 


THE   ARTIST 


XXTI 

And  still,  as  one  asleep,  I  turned  away 
To  see  the  crimson  of  lier  mantle  burn 
In  sunset  clouds,  the  pearly  deeps  of 

day 
Filled  with  cherubic  faces,  —  ah,   to 

spurn 
My  hopeless  charts  of  pictures  yet  to 

be, 
And  feed  the  fancies  of  a  swift  despair, 
Which  mocked  me  from  the    azure 

arch  of  air, 
And  from  the  twinkling  beryl  of  the 

sea! 

XXVII 

If  this  bright  bloom  were  inaccessi- 
ble 

"Which  clad  the  world,  and  thus  my 
senses  stung, 

How  could  I  catch  the  mingled  tints 
that  clung 

To  cheek  and  throat,  and  softly  down- 
ward fell 

In  poise  of  shoulders  and  the  breathing 
swell 

Of  woman's  bosom  ?  How  the  life  in 
eyes, 

The  glory  on  the  loosened  hair  that  lies, 

The  "nameless  music  o'er  her  being 
flung  ? 

XXVTII 

Or  how  create  anew  the  sterner  grace 
In  man's  heroic  muscles  sheathed  or 

shown, 
Whether  he  stoops  from  the  immortal 

zone 
Bare  and  majestic,  god  in  limbs  and 

face; 
Or  lies,  a  faun,  beside  his  mountain 

flock; 
Or  clasps,    a  satyr,    nymphs  among 

the  vine ; 
Or  kneels,  a  hermit,  in  his  cell  of  rock  ; 
Or  sees,  a  saint,  his  palms  of  glory 

shine! 

XXIX 

I  took  a  fisher  from  the  Lido's  strand, 

A  youthful  shape,  by  toil  and  vice  un- 
worn, 

Upon  his  limbs  a  golden  flush  like 
morn, 

And  on  his  mellow  cheek  the  roses 
tanned 


185 

Perchance    the 


Of  health  and  joy. 
soul  I  missed, 

From  mine  exalted  fancy  might  be 
born : 

With  eye  upraised  and  locks  by  sun- 
shine kissed, 

I  painted  him  as  the  Evangelist. 

XXX 

In  vain !  —  the  severance  of  his  lips  ex- 
pressed 

Kisses  of  love  whereon  his  fancy 
fed, 

And  the  warm  tints  each  other  sweetly 
wed 

In  slender  limb  and  balanced  arch  of 
breast, 

So  keen  with  life,  so  marked  in  every 
line 

With  unideal  nature,  none  had  guessed 

The  dream  that  cheered  me  and  the 
faith  that  led  ; 

But  human  all  I  would  have  made  di- 
vine ! 

XXXI 

I  found  a  girl    before  San   Marco's 

shrine 
Kneeling  in  gilded  gloom  :  her  tawny 

hair 
Rippled  across  voluptuous  shoulders 

bare, 
And    something  in  the    altar-taper's 

shine 
Sparkled  like  falling  tears.     This  girl 

shall  be 
My  sorrowing  Magdalen,  as  guilty- 
sweet, 
I  said,  as  when,  pure  Christ!  she  knelt 

to  thee, 
And  laid  her  blushing  forehead  on  thy 

feet! 

XXXII 

She  sat  before  me.      Like  a    sunny 

brook 
Poured  the  unbraided  ripples  softly 

round 
The  balmy  dells,  but  left  one  snowy 

mound 
Bare  in  its  beauty:  then  I  met  her 

look,  — 
The  conquering  gaze  of  those  bold 

eyes,  which  made, 
Ah,    God!    the  unrepented  sin  more 

fair 


i86 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.   JOHN 


Than  Magdalen  kneeling  with  her  hum- 
bled hair, 

Or  Agatha  beneath  the  quaestor's 
blade  ! 

XXXIII 

What  if  my  chaste  ambition  wavered 

then  ? 
What  if  the  veil  from  mine  own  nature 

fell 
And  I  obeyed  the  old  Circean  spell, 
And  lived  for  living,  not  for  painted 

men  ? 
Youth  follows  Life,  as  bees  the  honey- 
bell, 
And  nightingales  the  northward  march 

of  Spring, 
And  once,  a  dazzled  moth,  must  try 

his  wing, 
Though  but  to  scorch  it  in  the  blaze  of 

Hell !  , 

XXXIV 

Why  only  mimic  what  I  might  pos- 
sess? 

The  cheated  sense  that  revels  in  de- 
light 

Mocked  at  my  long  denial :  touch  and 
sight, 

The  warmth  of  wine,  the  sensuous 
loveliness 

Of  offered  lips  and  bosoms  breaking 
through 

The  parted  bodice:  winds  whose 
faint  caress 

And  wandering  hands  the  daintiest 
dreams  renew : 

The  sea's  absorbing  and  embracing 
blue  : 

xxxv 
Of  these  are  woven  our  being's  out- 
ward veil 
Of  rich  sensation,  which  has  power  to 

part 
The     pure,     untroubled     soul     and 

drunken  heart,  — 
A  screen  of  gossamer,  but  giants  fail 
The  bright,  enchanted  web  to  rend  in 

twain. 
Two  spirits  dwell  in  us:  one  chaste 

and  pale, 
A  still  recluse,  whose  garments  know 

no  stain, 
Whose  patient  lips  are  closed  upon 

her  pain: 


XXXVI 

The  other  bounding  to  her  cymbal's 

clang, 
A  bold  Bacchante,  panting  with  the 

race 
Of  joy,  the  triumph  and  the  swift 

embrace, 
And  gathering  in  one  cup  the  grapes 

that  hang 
From  every  vine  of  Youth:  around 

her  head 
The  royal  roses  bare  their  hearts  of 

red; 
Music  is  on  her  lips,  and  from  her  face 
Fierce  freedom  shines  and  wild,  allur- 
ing grace ! 

XXXVII 

Who  shall  declare  that  ever  side  by 
side 

To  weave  harmonious  fate  these  spirits 
wrought  ? 

To  whom  came  ever  one's  diviner  pride 

And  one's  full  measure  of  delight,  un- 
sought ? 

Who  dares  the  cells  of  blood  enrich, 
exhaust, 

Or  trust  his  fortune  unto  either 
guide  ? — 

So  interbalanced  hangs  the  equal  cost 

Of  what  is  ordered  and  of  what  is 
taught ! 

XXXVIII 

Surprised  to  Passion,  my  awakened 
life 

Whirled  onward  in  a  warm,  delirious 
maze, 

At  first  reluctant,  and  with  pangs  of 
strife 

That  dashed  their  bitter  o'er  my  hon- 
eyed days, 

Until  my  soul's  affrighted  nun  with- 
drew 

And  left  me  free:  for  light  that 
other's  chains 

As  garlands  seemed,  and  fresh  her 
wine  as  dew, 

And  wide  her  robes  to  hide  the  ban- 
quet-stains ! 

XXXIX 

Those  were  the  days  of  Summer  which 

intrude 
Their  sultry  fervor  on  the  realm  of 

Spring, 


;^l|l!|lMli; 


THE   ARTIST 


And  push  its  buds  to  sudden  blossom- 
ing; 

When  earth  and  air,  with  panting  love 
imbued, 

O'erpower  the  subject  life,  and  cease- 
less dart 

All  round  the  warm  horizon  of  the 
heart 

Heat-lightnings  in  the  sky  of  youth, 
which  first 

Regains  its  freshness  when  the  bolts 
have  burst. 


And  thus,  when  that  Sirocco's  breath 
had  passed, 

A  refluent  wind  of  health  swept  o'er 
my  brain, 

Cold,  swift,  and  searching ;  and  before 
it  fast 

Fled  the  uncertain,  misty  shapes 
which  cast 

Their  glory  on  my  dreams.  The 
ardor  vain 

That  would  have  snatched,  unearned, 
slow  labor's  crown, 

"Was  dimmed  ;  and  half  with  cour- 
age, half  with  pain, 

I  guessed  the  path  that  led  to  old  re- 
nown. 

XLI 

I  turned  my  pictures,  pitying  the 
while 

My  boyish  folly,  for  I  could  not  yet 

The  dear  deception  of  my  youth  for- 
get, 

And  though  it  parted  from  me  like  an 
isle 

Of  the  blue  sea  behind  some  rushing 
keel, 

Still  from  the  cliffs  its  temple  seemed 
to  smile, 

Fairer  in  fading:  future  morns  re- 
veal 

No  bowers  so  bright  as  yesterdays 
conceal. 

XLII 

The  laughing  boys  that  on  the  marble 
piers 

Lounge  with  their  dangling  feet 
above  the  wave ; 

The  tawny  faces  of  the  gondoliers  ; 

The  low-browed  girl,  whose  scarce- 
unfolded  years 


187 

of  her  glances 


But  half  the  lightninj 
gave ; — 

I  sketched  in  turn,  with  busy  hand 
and  brave, 

And   crushed   my  clouded  hope's  re- 
curring pang, 

And  sweet  "  Tiwglio  beneassal "  sang. 

XLIII 

Then  came  the  hour  when  I  must  say 

farewell 
To  silent  Venice  in  her  crystal  nest,  — 
When  with    the    last  peals  of   San 

Marco's  bell 
Her  hushed    and    splendid    pageant 

closed,  and  fell 
Like  her  own  jewel  in  the  ocean's 

breast. 
Belfry,  and  dome,  and  the  superb  array 
Of  wave-born  temples  floated  faraway, 
And  the  dull  shores  received  me  in 

the  west. 

XLIV 

And  past  the  Euganaean  hills,  that 

break 
The  Adrian  plain.  I  wandered  to  the 

Po, 
And  saw  Ferrara,  vacant  in  her  woe, 
Clasp  the  dim  cell  wherein  her  chil- 
dren take 
A  ghastly  pride  from  her  immortal 

shame  ; 
And    hailed    Bologna,    for    Caracci's 

sake,  — 
The  master  bold,  who  scorned  to  court 

his  fame, 
But  bared  his  arm  and  dipped  his 

brush  in  flame. 

XLV 

Through    many  a  dark-red    dell    of 

Apennine, 
With  chestnut-shadows  in  its  brook- 
less  bed, 
By  flinty  slopes  whose  only  dew  is 

wine, 
And  hills  the  olives  gave  a  hoary  head, 
I    climbed    to   seek  the   sunny   vale 

where  flows 
The  Tuscan  river,  —  where,  when  Art 

was  dead, 
Lorenzo's  spring  thawed  out  the  ages' 

snows, 
And  green  with  life  the  eternal  plant 

arose  ! 


1 88 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


XL  VI 

At  last,  from  Pratolino's  sloping  crest, 

I  saw  the  far,  aerial,  purple  gleam, 

As  from  Earth's  edge  a  fairer  orb 
might  seem 

In  softer  air  and  sunnier  beauty- 
dressed, 

And  onward  swift  with  panting  bosom 
pressed, 

Like  one  whose  wavering  will  pursues 
a  dream 

And  shrinks  from  waking ;  but  the 
vision  grew 

With  every  step  distinct  in  form  and 
hue: 


Till  on  the  brink  of  ancient  Fiesole, 

Mute,  breathless,  hanging  o'er  the 
dazzling  deeps 

Of  broad  Val  d'Arno,  which  the  sink- 
ing day 

Drowned  in  an  airy  bath  of  rosy  ray,  — 

An  atmosphere  more  dream-imbued 
than  Sleep's, — 

My  feet  were  stayed  ;  with  sweet  and 
sudden  tears, 

And  startled  lifting  of  the  cloud  that 
lay 

Upon  the  landscape  of  the  future 
years ! 

XL  VIII 

I  leaned  against  a  cypress-bole,  afraid 

With  blind  foretaste  of  coming  ecs- 
tasy, 

So  rarely  on  the  soul  the  joy  to  be 

Prophetic  dawns,  so  frequent  falls  the 
shade 

Of  near  misfortune  !  All  my  senses 
sang, 

And  lark-like  soared  and  j  ubilant  and 
free 

The  flock  of  dreams,  that  from  my 
bosom  sprang, 

O'er  yonder  towers  to  hover  and  to 
hang! 


Then,  as  the  dusty  road  I  downward 
paced, 

A  phantom  arch  was  ever  builded  nigh 

To  span  my  coming,  luminous  and 
high  ; 

And  airy  columns,  crowned  with  cen- 
sers, graced 


The  dreamful  pomp,  —  with  many  a 

starry  bell 
From  garlands  woven  in  the  fading 

sky, 
And  noiseless  fountains  shimmered, 

as  they  fell, 
Like  meteor-fires  that  haunt  a  fairy 

dell ! 


Two  maids,  upon  a  terrace  that  o'er- 

hung 
The  highway,  lightly  strove  in  laugh- 
ing play 
Each  one  the  other's  wreath  to  snatch 

away, 
With  backward-bending  heads,   and 

arms  that  clung 
In  intertwining  beauty.     Both  were 

young, 
And  one  as  my  Madonna-dream  was 

fair ; 
And  she  the  garland  from  the  other's 

hair 
Caught  with  a  cunning    hand,   and 

poised,  and  flung. 


A  fragrant  ring  of  jasmine  flowers,  it 
sped, 

Dropping  their  elfin  trumpets  in  its 
flight, 

And  downward  circling,  on  my  star- 
tled head 

Some  angel  bade  the  diadem  alight ! 

The  cool  green  leaves  and  breathing 
blossoms  white 

Embraced  my  brow  with  dainty,  mute 
caress : 

I  stood  in  rapt  amazement,  soul  and 
sight 

Surrendered  to  that  vision's  loveliness. 

LII 

She,  too,  stood,  smitten  with  the  won- 
drous chance 

Whereby  the  freak  of  her  unwitting 
hand 

A  stranger's  forehead  crowned.  I 
saw  her  stand, 

Most  like  some  flying  Hour,  that,  in 
her  dance 

Perceives  a  god,  and  drops  her 
courser's  rein : 

Then,  while  I  drank  the  fulness  of  her 
glance, 


THE   ARTIST 


189 


Crept  over  throat  and  cheek  a  bashful 

stain,  — 
She  fled,  yet  flying  turned,  and  looked 

again. 

LIII 

And  I  went  forward,  consecrated, 
blest, 

And  garlanded  like  some  returning 
Faun 

From  Pan's  green  revels  in  the  wood- 
land's breast. 

Here  was  a  crown  to  give  Ambition 
rest, 

A  wreath  for  infant  Love  to  slumber 
on! 

And  blended,  both  in  mine  enchant- 
ment shone, 

Till  Love  was  only  Fame  familiar 
grown, 

And  Fame  but  Love  triumphantly  ex- 
pressed ! 


Such  moments  come  to  all  whom  Art 

elects 
To  serve  her, — Poet,  Painter,  Sculp- 
tor feel, 
Once  in  their  lives  the  shadows  which 

conceal 
Achievement  lifted,  and  the  world's 

neglects 
Are  spurned  behind  them,  like  the 

idle  dust 
"Whirled     from     Hyperion's    golden 

chariot-wheel: 
Once  vexing  doubt  is  dumb,  and  long 

disgust 
Allayed,  and  Time  and  Fate  and  Fame 

are  just! 

LV 

It  is  enough,  if  underneath  our  rags 

A  single  hour  the  monarch's  purple 
shows. 

In  dearth  of  praise  no  true  ambition 
flags, 

And  by  his  self-belief  the  student 
knows 

The  master :  nor  was  ever  wholly  dark 

The  Artist's  life.  Though  timid  for- 
tune lags 

Behind  his  hope,  there  comes  a  day 
to  mark 

The  late  renown  that  round  his  name 
shall  close. 


LVI 

I  dared  not  question  my  prophetic 
pride, 

But  entered  Florence  as  a  conqueror, 

To  whom  should  ope  the  Tribune's 
sacred  door, 

Hearing  his  step  afar.  On  every 
side 

Great  works  fed  faith  in  greatness 
that  endured 

Irrecognition,  patient  to  abide 

Neglect  that  stung,  temptations  that 
allured,  — 

Supremely  proud  and  in  itself  se- 
cured ! 

LVII 

From  the  warm  bodies  Titian  loved 

to  paint, 
Where  life  still  palpitates  in  languid 

glow ; 
From  Raphael's  heads  of  Virgin  and 

of  Saint, 
Bright  with  divinest  message;  from 

the  slow 
And      patient     grandeur     Leonardo 

wrought ; 
From  soft,   effeminate  Carlo  Dolce, 

faint 
With  vapid  sweetness,  to  the  Titan 

thought 
That  shaped  the  dreams  of  Michel 

Angelo : 

LVIII 

From  each  and  all,  through  varied 

speech,  I  drew 
One  sole,  immortal  revelation.     They 
No  longer  mocked  me  with  the  hope- 
less view 
Of  power  that  with  them  died,  but 

gave  anew 
The  hope  of  power  that  cannot  pass 

away 
While  Beauty  lives:  the  passion  of 

the  brain 
Demands  possession,  nor  shall  yearn 

in  vain : 
Its  nymph,  though  coy,  did  never  yet 

betray. 

LIX 

It  is  not  much  to  earn  the  windy 

praise 
That  fans  our  early  promise :  every 

child 


190 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


Wears  childhood's  grace  :  in  unbeliev- 
ing days 

One  spark  of  earnest  faith  left  unde- 
nted 

Will  burn  and  brighten  like  the  lamps 
of  old, 

And  men  cry  out  in  haste  :  ' '  Behold,  a 
star!" 

Deeming  some  glow-worm  light,  that 
soon  is  cold, 

The  radiant  god's  approaching  avatar ! 

LX 

So  I  was  hailed  :  and  something  fawn- 
like, shy, 

Caught  from  the  loneliness  of  moun- 
tain-glens, 

That  clung  around  me,  drew  the  stran- 
ger's eye 

And  held  my  life  apart  from  other 
men's. 

Their  prophecies  were  sweet,  and  if 
they  breathed 

But  ignorant  hope  and  shallow  plea- 
sure, I 

No  less  from  them  already  saw  be- 
queathed 

The  crown  by  avaricious  Glory 
wreathed. 

LXI 

And,  climbing  up  to  San  Miniato's 
height, 

Among  the  cypresses  I  made  a  nest 

For  wandering  fancy  :  down  the  shim- 
mering west 

The  Arno  slid  in  creeping  coils  of  light : 

O'er  Boboli's  fan -like  pines  the  city 
lay 

In  tints  that  freshly  blossomed  on  the 
sight, 

Enringed  with  olive-orchards,  thin 
and  gray, 

Like  moonlight  falling  in  the  lap  of 
day. 


There    sprang,    before   me,    Giotto's 

ivory  tower ; 
There  hung,  a  planet,  Brunelleschi's 

dome  : 
Of  living  dreams  Yal  d'Arno  seemed 

the  home, 
From  far    Careggi's  dim-seen  laurel 

bower 
To  Bellosguardo,  smiling  o'er  the  vale  ; 


And  pomp  and  beauty  and  supremest 
power, 

Blending  and  brightening  in  their 
bridal  hour, 

Made  even  the  blue  of  Tuscan  sum- 
mers pale ! 

LXIII 

Immortal  Masters  !    Ye  who    drank 

this  air 
And  made  it  spirit,  as  the  must  makes 

wine, 
Be  ye  the  intercessors  of  my  prayer, 
Pure  Saints  of  Art,  around  her  holy 

shrine ! 
The  purpose  of  your  lives  bestow  on 

mine,  — 
The  child-like  heart,  the  true,  labori- 
ous hand 
And  pious  vision,  —  that  my  soul  may 

dare 
One  day  to  climb  the  summits  where 

ye  stand ! 

LXIV 

Say,  shall  my  memory  walk  in  yonder 
street 

Beside  your  own,  ye  ever-living  shades? 

Shall  pilgrims  come,  gray  men  and 
pensive  maids, 

To  pluck  this  moss  because  it  knew 
my  feet, 

And  forms  of  mine  move  o'er  the 
poet's  mind 

In  thoughts  that  still  to  haunting  mu- 
sic beat, 

And  Love  and  Grief  and  Adoration  find 

Their  speech  in  pictures  I  shall  leave 
behind  ? 


Ah !  they,  the  Masters,  toiled  where  I 

but  dreamed ! 
The  crown  was  ready  ere  they  dared  to 

claim 
One  leaf  of  honor  :  then,  around  them 

gleamed 
No  Past,  where  rival  souls  of  splendid 

name 
At  once  inspire  and  bring  despair  of 

fame. 
A  naked  heaven  was  o'er  them,  where 

to  set 
Their   kindled  stars;    and    thus    the 

palest  yet 
Exalted  burns  o'er  all  that  later  came. 


THE   ARTIST 


191 


LXVI 

They  unto  me  were  gods  :  for,  though 

I  felt 
That  nobler  't  was,  creating,  even  to 

fail 
Than  grandly  imitate,  my  spirit  knelt, 
Unquestioning,  to  their  authority. 
I  learned  their  lives,  intent  to  find  a 

tale 
Resembling  mine,   and    deemed    my 

vision  free 
When  most  their  names  obscured  with 

flattering  veil 
That  light  of  Art  which  first  arose  in 

me. 

LXVII 

And  less  for  Beauty's  single  sake  in- 
spired 

Than  old  interpretations  to  attain, 

I  sought  with  restless  hand  and  heated 
brain 

Their  truth  to  reach,  —  by  his  example 
fired 

"Who  sketched  his  mountain-goats  on 
rock  or  sand, 

And  his,  the  wondrous  boy,  beneath 
whose  hand, 

Conferring  sanctity  with  sweet  dis- 
dain, 

A  cask  became  a  shrine,  a  hut  a  fane. 

lxviii 

My  studio  was  the  street,  the  market- 
place : 

I  snared  the  golden  spirit  of  the  sun 

Amid  his  noonday  freedom,  —  swiftly 
won 

The  unconscious  gift  from  many  a 
passing  face,  — 

The  spoils  of  color  caught  from  daz- 
zling things, 

From  unsuspecting  forms  the  sudden 
grace, 

Alive  with  hope  to  find  the  hidden 
wings 

Of  the  Divine  that  from  the  Human 
springs. 

LXIX 

A  jasmine  garland  hung  above  my 

bed, 
Withered  and  dry  :  beneath,  a  picture 

hung,  — 
A  shadowy  likeness  of  the  maid  who 

flung 


That  crown  of  welcome.  On  my 
sleeping  head 

The  glory  of  the  vanished  sunset  fell, 

And  still  the  leaves  reviving  fragrance 
shed, 

And  dreams  crept  out  of  every  jasmine- 
bell, 

Inebriate  with  their  fairy  hydromel. 


Where  was  my  lost  Armida?     She 

had  grown 
A  phantom  shape,  a  star  of  dreams, 

alone  ; 
And  I  no  longer  dared  to  touch  the 

dim 
Unfinished  features,   lest   my  brush 

should  mar 
A  memory  swift  as  wings  of  cherubim 
That  unto  saints  in  prayer  may  flash 

afar 
Up  the  long  steep  of  rifted  cloudy 

walls, 
Wherethrough      the      overpowering 

glory  falls. 

LXXI 

But,  as  the  Rose  will  lend  its  excellence 
To  the  unlovely  earth  in  which  it 

grows, 
Until  the  sweet  earth  says,  "I  serve 

the  Rose," 
So,   penetrant    with    her  was   every 

sense. 
She  filled  me  as  the  moon  a  sleeping 

sea, 
That  shows  the  night  her  orb  reflected 

thence, 
Yet  deems  itself  all  darkness  :  silently 
The  dream  of  her  betrayed  itself  in 

me. 

LXXII 

I  had  a  cherished  canvas,  whereupon 
An  antique  form  of  inspiration  grew 
To  other  life  :  beneath  a  sky  of  blue, 
Filled  with  the  sun  and  limpid  yet 

with  dawn, 
A  palm-tree  rose :  its  glittering  leaves 

were  bowed 
As  though  to  let  no  ray  of  sunlight 

through 
Their    folded   shade,   and   kept   the 

early  dew 
On  all  the  flowers  within  its  hovering 

cloud. 


192 


THE   PICTURE  OF   ST.  JOHN 


LXXIII 

Madonna's  girlish  form,  arrested  there 
With  poising  foot,  and  parted  lips, 

and  eyes 
With  innocent  wonder,  bright  and  glad 

surprise, 
And  hands  half -clasped  in  rapture  or 

in  prayer, 
Met  the  Announcing  Angel.     On  her 

sight 
He  burst  in  splendor  from  the  sunny 

air, 
Making    it    dim  around  his  perfect' 

.  light, 
And  in  his  hand  the  lily-stem  he  bare. 

LXXIV 

Naught  else,  save,  nestling  near  the 
Virgin's  feet, 

A  single  lamb  that  wandered  from  its 
flock, 

And  one  white  dove,  upon  a  splintered 
rock 

Above  the  yawning  valleys,  dim  with 
heat. 

Beyond,  the  rifted  hills  of  Gilead  flung 

Their  phantom  shadows  on  the  burn- 
ing veil, 

And,  far  away,  one  solitary,  pale 

Vermilion  cloud  above  the  Desert 
hung. 

LXXV 

I  painted    her,    a  budding,    spotless 

maid, 
That  has  not  dreamed  of  man, — for 

God's  high  choice 
Too  humble,  yet  too  pure  to  be  afraid, 
And  from  the  music  of  the  Angel's 

voice 
And  from  the  lily's  breathing  heart  of 

gold 
Inspired  to  feel  the  mystic    beauty 

laid 
Upon  her  life :  the  secret  is  untold, 
Unconsciously  the  message  is  obeyed. 

LXXVI 

How  much    I    failed,   myself   alone 

could  know ; 
How  much  achieved,  the  world.     My 

picture  took 
Its  place  with  others  in  the  public 

show, 
And  many  passed,  and  some  remained 

to  look. 


While  I,  in  flushed  expectancy  and 

fear, 
Stood  by  to  watch  the  gazers  come 

and  go, 
To  note  each  pausing  face,  perchance 

to  hear 
A  careless  whisper  tell  me  Fame  was 

near. 

LXXVII 

"Tis    Ghirlandajo's    echo!"    some 

would  say ; 
And  others,  ' '  Here  one  sees  a  pupil's 

hand." 
"An    innovation,    crude,   but    fairly 

planned," 
Remarked  the  connoisseur,  and  moved 

away, 
Sublimely  grave :  but  one,  sometimes, 

would  stand 
Silent,   with   brightening    face.     No 

more  than  this, 
Though    voiceless    praise,    ambition 

could  demand, 
And  for  an  hour  I  felt  the  Artist's 

bliss. 

LXXVIII 

One  day,  a  man  of  haughty  port  drew 
nigh,  — 

A  man  beyond  his  prime,  but  still  un- 
bent, 

Though  the  first  flakes  of  age  already 
lent 

Their  softness  to  his  brow :  his  wan- 
dering eye 

Allowed  its  stately  patronage  to  glide 

Along  the  pictures,  till,  with  gaze 
intent 

He  fixed  on  mine,  and  startled  won- 
derment 

Displaced  his  air  of  cold,  indifferent 
pride. 

LXXIX 

"  Signor  Marchese!"  cried,  approach- 
ing, one 

Who  seemed  a  courtly  comrade,  "can 
it  be 

That  in  these  daubs  the  touch  of  Art 
you  see,  — 

These  foreign  moons  that  ape  our 
native  sun  ?  " 

To  whom  he  said:  "The  Virgin, 
Count!    'Tis  she, 

My  Clelia  !  like  a  portrait  just  begun, 


THE   ARTIST 


193 


Where  the  design   is  yet   but   half 

avowed, 
And  shimmers  on  you  through  a  misty 

cloud : 

LXXX 

"  So,  here,  I  find  her.  'T  is  a  marvel- 
lous chance. 

Your  painters  choose  some  peasant 
beauty's  face 

For  their  Madonnas,  striving  to  en- 
hance 

By  softer  tints  her  coarse  plebeian 
grace 

To  something  heavenly.  Here,  the 
features  wear 

A  noble  stamp :  who  painted  this  is 
fit 

That  Clelia's  self  beside  his  canvas 
sit,  — 

His  hand,  methinks,  might  fix  her 
shadow  there." 

LXXXI 

"  'Tis  true,  — you  wed  her  then,  as  I 

have  heard, 
And  to  the  young  Colonna  ? "    "Even 

so: 
We  made  the  family  compact  long 

ago. 
A  wilful  blade,  they  say,  but  every 

bird 
Is  wiser  when  he  owns  a  nested  mate  ; 
And  I  shall  lose  her  ere  the  winter's 

snow 
Falls  on   the  Apennine,  —  a  father's 

fate! 
But  from  these  two  my  house  again 

may  grow. 

LXXXIT 

"  She  lost,  her  picture  in  the  lonely  hall 
Shall  speak,  from  silent  lips,  her  sweet 

1  good-night  ! ' 
And  soothe  my  childless  fancy.     I'll 

invite 
This  painter  to  the  work:  his  brush 

has  all 
The  graces  of  a  hand  which  takes  de- 
light 
In  noble  forms,  —  and  thus  may  best 

recall, 
Though  nameless  he,   what  Palma's 

brush  divine 
Found  in  the  beauteous  mothers  of  her 

line ! " 


LXXXIII 

I  heard ;  but  trembling,  turned  away 

to  hide 
An  ecstasy  no  longer  to  be  quelled,  — 
The  lover's  longing  and  the  artist's 

pride : 
For,   though    the  growing    truth  of 

life  dispelled 
My  rash  ideal,   my  very  blood  had 

caught 
The  fine  infection :  from  my  heart  it 

welled, 
Colored  each  feeling,  perfumed  every 

thought, 
And  gave  desire  what  hope  had  left 

unsought ! 

Lxxxrv 
'Twas    blind,    unthinking    rapture. 

Who  was  she, 
Pandolfo's  daughter,  young  Colonna's 

bride, 
The  pampered  maiden  of  a  house  of 

pride, 
That  I,  though  but  in  thought,  should 

bend  the  knee 
Before  her  beauty  ?    She  was  set  too 

high, 
And  her  white  lustre  wore  patrician 

stains, 
Like  sunshine  falling  through  heraldic 

panes 
That  rise  between  the  altar  and  the 

sky. 

LXXXV 

Next  day  the  Marquis  came.     With 

antique  air 
Of  nicest  courtesy,  his  words  did  sue 
The  while  his  tone  commanded  :  could 

I  spare 
Some  hours  ?  —  a  portrait  only,  it  was 

true, 
But  the  Great  Masters  painted  portraits 

too, 
Even  Raffaello:  at  his  palace,  then! 
The    Lady  Clelia  would    await    me 

there  : 
His   thanks,  —  to-morrow,   should    it 

be?  —  at  ten. 

LXXXVI 

But  when  the  hour  approached,  and 

o'er  me  hung 
The  shadow  of    the  high   Palladian 

walls, 


194 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


My  heart  beat  fast  in  feverish  inter- 
vals: 

I  half  drew  back:  the  lackeys  open 
flung 

The  brazen  portals,  —  broad  before 
me  rose 

The  marble  stairs,  —  above  them 
gleamed  the  halls, 

And  I  ascended,  as  a  man  who  goes 

To  see  some  unknown  gate  of  life 
unclose. 

LXXXVII 

They  bore  my  easel  to  a  spacious  room 
Whose  northern  windows  curbed  the 

eager  day, 
But  under  them  a  sunny  garden  lay  : 
A  fountain  sprang  :  the  myrtles  were 

in  bloom, 
And  I  remembered,  —  "ere  the  win- 
ter's snow 
Cloaks  Apennine  "  Colonna  bears  away 
Her  who  shall    wear  them.      'T  is  a 

woman's  doom, 
I  laughed,  —  she  seeks  no  other :  let 
her  go ! 

LXXXVIII 

Lo  !    rustling  forward  with  a  silken 

sound, 
Her  living  self  advanced !  —  as  fair  and 

frail 
As  May's  first  lily  in  a  Northern  vale, 
As  light  in  airy  grace,  as  when  she 

crowned 
Her  painter's  head,  —  the  Genius  of 

my  Fame  ! 
Ah,   words  are  vain    where  Music's 

tongue  would  fail, 
And  Color' s  brigh  test  miracl  es  be  found 
Imperfect,  cold,  to  match  her  as  she 

came ! 

LXXXIX 

The  blood  that  gathered,  stifling,  at 

my  heart, 
Surged  back  again,  and  burned  on 

cheek  and  brow. 


"Your  model!"  smiled  the  Marquis; 

' '  you  '11  avow 
That  she  is  not  unworthy  of  your 

art. 
I  see  you  note  the  likeness,  —  it  is 

strange : 
But  since  you  dreamed  her  face  so 

nearly,  now 
You  '11  paint  it,  —  as  she  is,  —  I  want 

no  change :  " 
Then  left,   with  wave  of  hand  and 

stately  bow. 

xc 
A  girlish  wonder  dawned  in  Clelia's 

face. 
Her  frank,   pure  glances  seemed  to 

question  mine, 
Or  scanned  my  features,   seeking  to 

retrace 
Her  way  to  me  along  some  gossamer 

line 
Of  memory,  almost  found,  then  lost 

again. 
Meanwhile,   I  set  my  canvas  in  its 

place, 
Recalled  the  artist-nature,  though  with 

pain, 
And  tamed  to  work  the  tumult  of  my 

brain. 

xci 

"  I  give  you  trouble,"  then  she  gently 

said. 
My   brow  was  damp,  my  hand  un- 
steady.    "Nay," 
I  answered:  "'tis  the  grateful  price  I 

pay 
For  that  fair  wreath  you  cast  upon 

my  head." 
She  started,  blushing :  all  at  once  she 

found 
The     shining     clew,  —  her     silvery 

laughter  made 
The    prelude    to    her    words:    "the 

flowers  will  fade, 
But   by   your   hand    am   I   forever 

crowned ! " 


THE   WOMAN 


x95 


BOOK  II 
THE  WOMAN 


Oh  give  not  Beauty  to  an  artist's  eye 
And  deem  his  heart,  untroubled,  can 

withstand 
Her  necromancy,  changing  earth  and 

sky 
To  one  wide  net  wherein  her  captives 

lie!  — 
Nor,  since  his  mind  the  measure  takes, 

his  hand 
Essays  the  semblance  of  each  hue  and 

line, 
That  cold  his  pulses  beat,  as  if  he 

scanned 
Her  marble  death  and  not  her  life  di- 
vine ! 

ii 
How  could  I  view  the  sombre-shining 

hair 
Without  the  tingling,  passionate  wish 

to  feel 
Its    silken    smoothness?     How    the 

golden-pale 
Pure  oval  of  the  face,  the  forehead 

fair, 
The  light  of  eyes  whose  dusky  depths 

conceal 
Love's  yet  unkindled  torch,  and  wear 

the  mail 
Of  cruel  Art,   that  bade  me  mimic 

bliss 
And  only  paint  the  mouth  I  burned 

to  kiss  ? 

in 
So  near,  the  airy  wave  her  voice  set 

free 
Smote  warm  against  my  cheek!    So 

near,  I  heard 
The  folds  that  hid  her  bosom,  as  they 

stirred 
Above  the  heart -beat  measuring  now, 

for  me, 
Life's  only  music  !     Ah,  so  near,  and 

yet 
Between  us  rose  a  wall  I  could  not 

see, 


To  dash  me  back,  —  before  the  wings 

that  fret 
For  love's  release,  a  crystal  barrier  set ! 


I  kissed,  in  thought,  each  clear,  deli- 
cious tint 
That  lured  my  mocking  hand:  my 

passion  flung 
Its  lurking  sweetness  over  every  print 
Of  the  soft  brush  that  to  her  beauty 

clung, 
And  fondled  while  it    toiled,  — and 

day  by  day 
The    canvas    brightened     with    her 

brightening  face: 
The  artist   gloried    in   the  picture's 

grace, 
But,  ah!   the  lover's  chances  lapsed 

away. 


And  now,  — the  last!    The  grapes  al- 
ready wore 
Victorious  purple,  ere  their  trodden 

death, 
The  olives  darkened    through   their 

branches  hoar, 
And  from  below  the  tuberose's  breath 
Died  round  the  casement,  from  the 

spicy  shore 
Of  ripened  summer,  passionate  as  the 

sigh 
I    stifled :    and    my    heart    said,  — 

"  Speak  or  die! 
The  moment's  fate  stands  fixed  for- 

evermore." 

VI 

The  naked  glare  of  breezeless  afternoon 

Dazzled  without :  the  garden  swooned 
in  heat. 

The  old  duenna  drooped  her  head, 
and  soon 

Behind  the  curtain  slumbered  in  her 
seat. 

Within  my  breast  the  crowded,  pant- 
in  s  beat 


196 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


Disturbed  my  hand :  the  pencil  fell : 

I  turned, 
And  with  imploring  eyes  and  tears 

that  burned 
Sank    in   despairing    silence    at    her 

feet. 


I  did  not  dare  look  up,  but  knelt,  as 
waits 

A  foiled  tyrannicide  the  headsman's 
blow : 

At  first  a  frightened  hush,  — the 
stealthy,  slow, 

Soft  rustle  of  her  dress,  —  a  step  like 
Fate's 

To  crown  or  smite :  but  now  descend- 
ed, where 

Her  garland  fell,  her  hand  upon  my 
hair, 

And,  light  as  floating  leaf  of  orchard- 
snow 

Loosed  by  the  pulse  of  Spring,  it 
trembled  there. 


Then  I  looked  up,  —  Oh,  grace  of 
God !  to  feel 

Her  answering  tears  like  dew  upon 
my  brow  ; 

To  touch  and  kiss  her  blessing  hand  ; 
to  seal 

Without  a  word  the  one  eternal 
vow 

Of  man  and  woman,  when  their  lives 
unite 

Thenceforth  forever,  soul  and  body 
shared, 

Like  those  the  Grecian  goddess,  pity- 
ing, paired 

To  form  the  young,  divine  Herma- 
phrodite. 

IX 

I  breathed:  "You  do  not  love  Co- 
lonna?"     "No," 

She  whispered,  "  aid  me,  I  am  yours 
to  save  ! " 

' '  I  yours  to  help,  your  lover  and 
your  slave,  — 

My  soul,  my  blood  is  yours,"  I  mur- 
mured low. 

The  old  duenna  stirred  :  ' '  When  ? 
where  ?  one  hour 

For  your  commands !  "  As  hurriedly 
she  gave 


Reply :  "  The  garden,  —  yonder  dark- 
est bower, 

When  midnight  tolls  from  Santa 
Croce's  tower!" 


Ere  the  immortal  light  had  time  to 

fade 
In    either' s    eyes,   the  old    Marchese 

came. 
I  veiled,  in  toil,  the  flush  that  still 

betrayed, 
And  Clelia,  strong  to  hide  her  maiden 

shame, 
The  motion  of  her  father's  hand  obeyed 
And  left   us.     Gravely  he  my  work 

surveyed : 
"'Tis  done,  I  think, — 'tis  she,  in- 
deed," he  said : 
"'Twas  time,"  he  muttered,   as  he 

turned  his  head. 


I  bowed  in  silence,  took  his  offered 

gold, 
And  down  the  marble  stairs,  through 

doors  that  cried, 
On  scornful  hinges,  of  their  owner's 

pride, 
Passed  on  my  way :  my  happy  heart 

did  fold 
Pandolfo's  treasure  in  its  secret  hold, 
And  every  bell  that  chimed  the  feeble 

day 
Down  to  its  crimson  burial,  seemed  to 

say: 
"Not    yet,   not    yet,    for  Love    our 

tongues  have  tolled  ! " 


More  slowly  rolled  the  silver  disk 
above 

The  hiding  hills,  than  ever  moon  came 
up: 

The  sky's  begemmed  and  sapphire- 
tinted  cup 

Spilled  o'er  its  dew,  and  Heaven  in 
nuptial  love 

Stretched  forth  his  mystic  arms,  and 
crouched  beside 

The  yearning  Earth,  his  dusky-fea- 
tured bride: 

The  pulses  of  the  Night  began  to 
move, 

And  Life's  eternal  secret  ruled  the 
tide. 


THE   WOMAN 


197 


Along  the  shadow  of  the  garden-walls 

I  crept :  the  streets  were  still,  or  only 
beat 

To  wavering  echoes  by  unsteady  feet 

Of  wine-flushed  revellers  from  banquet 
halls. 

They  saw  me  not :  the  yielding  door  I 
gained, 

And  glided  down  a  darksome  alley, 
sweet 

With  slumbering  roses,  to  the  shy  re- 
treat 

Of  bashful  bliss  and  yearning  unpro- 
faned. 


The  amorous  odors  of  the  moveless 

air,  — 
Jasmine  and  tuberose  and  gillyflower, 
Carnation,    heliotrope,    and   purpling 

shower 
Of  Persian  roses,  —  kissed  my  senses 

there 
To  keenest  passion,    clad  my  limbs 

with  power 
Like  some  young  god's,  when  at  the 

banquet  first 
He    drinks    fresh    deity  with    eager 

thirst,  — 
And  midnight  rang  from  Santa  Croce's 

tower  ! 

xv 
She  came  !  a  stealthy,  startled,  milk- 
white  fawn, 
Thridding  the  tangled  bloom  :  a  balmy 

wave 
Foreran  her  coming,  and  the  blushful 

dawn 
Of  Love  its  color  to  the  moonlight 

gave, 
And  Xight  grew  splendid.    In  a  trance 

divine, 
Hand  locked  in  hand,   with  kissing 

pulse,  we  clung, 
Then  heart  to  heart ;  and  all  her  being 

flung 
Its  sweetness  to  the  lips,  and  mixed 

with  mine. 

XVI 

Immortal  Hour,   whose  starry  torch 

did  guide 
Eternal  Love  to  his  embalmed  nest 
In  virgin  bosoms,  —  Hour,  supremely 

blest 


Beyond  thy  sisters,  lift  thy  brow  in 

pride, 
And  say  to  her  whose  muffled  beams 

invest 
The  bed  where  Strength  lies  down  at 

Beauty's  side, 
' '  Before  my  holier  lamp  thy  forehead 

hide  : 
Give  up  thy  crown  :  the  joy  I  bring  is 

best ! " 

XVII 

"  O  saved,  not  lost,  — Madonna,  bless 

thy  child  ! " 
She  murmured  then  ;  and  I  as  fondly, 

"Death 
Come  now,  and  close  my  over-happy 

breath 
On  sacred  lips,  that  shall  not  be  defiled 
By  grosser  kisses  !  "     "  Fail  me  not," 

she  said, 
And  clung  the  closer,  —  "  God  is  over- 
head, 
And  hears  you."     "  Yea,"  I  whispered 

wild, 
"And  may  His  thunder  strike    the 

false  one  dead  !  " 

XVIII 

No  thought  had  she  of  lineage  or  of 

place  : 
Love  washed  the  colors  from  her  blaz- 
oned shield 
To  make  a  mirror  for  her  lover's  face, 
Unto  patrician  ignorance  revealed 
The  bliss  to  give,  the  ecstasy  to  yield, 
And  now,  descended  from  her  stately 

dream, 
She  trod  the  happy  level  of  her  race, 
In  perfect,  sweet  surrender,  faith  su- 
preme. 


With  cautious  feet,  in  dewy  sandals 

shod, 
And     sidelong    look,    the    perfumed 

Hours  went  by ; 
Until  the  azure  darkness  of  the  sky 
Withered  aloft,  and  shameless  Morning 

trod 
Her  clashing  bells.     Our  paradise  was 

past, 
And  yet  to  part  was  bitterer  than  to  die. 
We  rose :  we  turned  :  we  held  each 

other  fast, 
Each  kiss  the  fonder  as  it  seemed  the 

last. 


198 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


xx 

O  happy  Earth!  To  Love's  trium- 
phant heart 

Thou  still  art  convoyed  by  the  singing 
stars 

That  hailed  thy  birth  :  Heaven's  beau- 
teous counterpart, 

No  shadow  dims  thee,  no  convulsion 
mars 

Thy  fair  green  bosom  :  on  thy  fore- 
head shine 

The  golden  lilies  of  the  bridegroom 
Day, 

Thy  hoary  forests  take  the  bloom  of 
May, 

Thy  seas  the  sparkle  of  the  autumn 
wine! 

XXI 

Serenely  beautiful,  the  brightening 
morn 

Led  on  the  march  of  mine  enchanted 
round 

Of  days,  wherein  the  world  was  freshly 
born, 

And  men  with  primal  purity  re- 
crowned  : 

So  deep  my  drunkenness  of  heart  and 
brain, 

That  Art,  o'ershadowed,  sat  as  if  for- 
lorn 

In  Love's  excess  of  glory,  and  in  vain 

Essayed  my  old  allegiance  to  regain. 


She  to  the  regions  o'er  our  lives  un- 
furled 
Is  turned :  from  that  which  never  is, 

she  draws 
Her  best  achievements  and  her  finest 

laws, 
And  more  enriches  than  she  owes,  the 

world,  — 
Whence,  leading  Life,  she  rules;  till 

Life,  in  turn, 
Feels  in  its  veins  the  warmer  ether 

burn, 
Asserts   itself,  and    bids    its   service 

pause, 
To  be  the  beauty  it  was  vowed  to  earn ! 

XXIII 

And  my  transfigured  heart  no  baby- 
love, 

With  dimpled  face,  had  taken  to  its 
nest, 


But  that  Titanic,  pre-Olympian  guest, 
The  elder  god,  who  bears  his  slaves 

above 
The  fret  of  Time,  the  frowns  of  Cir- 
cumstance ; 
And,  twin  with  Will,  engendered  in 

my  breast 
A  certain  vision  of  a  life  in  rest, 
And  love  secured  against  the  shocks 
of  chance. 

XXIV 

It  was  enough  to  feel  his  potent  arm 

Lift  me  aloft,  like  giant  Christopher, 

Above  the  flood.  Could  he  the  dragon 
charm 

Whose  fanged  and  gilded  strength 
still  guarded  her  ? 

The  crumbling  pride  of  twice  three 
hundred  years, 

Trembling  in  dotage  at  the  ghost  of 
harm, 

Could  he  subdue  ?  Ah,  wherefore 
summon  fears 

To  vex  the  faith  that  never  reap- 
pears ! 

XXV 

But  she  the  more,  whose  swift-ap- 
proaching fate 

Shamed  the  exulting  bliss  that  made 
me  free, 

And  clouded  hers,  thereon  did  medi- 
tate. 

When  next  she  met  me  at  the  garden- 
gate, 

Its  chilling  shadow  fell  upon  me. 
"See!" 

She  said,  and  dangled  in  the  balmy 
dark 

(The  moon  was  down)  a  chain  of 
jewelry, 

That,  snake-like,  burned  with  many 
a  diamond  spark. 


"His  bridal  gift!"  she  whispered: 
' '  he  will  come, 

Erelong,  to  claim  me.  Speech,  and 
tears,  and  prayer, 

Are  vain  my  father's  will  to  over- 
bear, 

And  better  were  it  had  my  lips  been 
dumb. 

Incredulous,  he  heard  with  wondering 
stare 


My  pleading:  'Keep  me,   father 

your  side ! 
I  will"  not  be  that  wanton  prince's 

bride,  — 
Unwed,   your  lonely  palace  let   me 

share ! ' 

XXVII 

"  Much  more  I  said,  not  daring  to  re- 
veal 

Our  secret ;  but,  alas !  I  spoke  in  vain. 

He  coldly  smiled  and  raised  me  :  'Do 
not  kneel,  — 

'T  is  useless  :  here  's  a  pretty,  childish 
rain 

For  nothing,  but  the  sun  will  shine 
anon. 

What  ails  the  girl  ?  the  compact  shall 
remain. 

Pandolfo's  name  is  not  so  newly  won, 

That  we  can  smutch  it,  and  not  feel 
the  stain.' 

XXVIII 

"  He  spoke  my  doom;  but  death  were 
sweeter  now, 

Since,  O  my  best-beloved,  life  alone 

Is  where  your  eyes,  your  lips,  can 
meet  my  own, 

And  Heaven  commands,  that  regis- 
tered your  vow, 

To  save  me,  and  fulfil  it!"  Then, 
around 

My  neck  her  white,  imploring  arms 
were  thrown  ; 

Her  heart  beat  in  mine  ears  with  plain- 
tive sound, 

So  close  and  piteously  she  held  me 
bound. 

XXIX 

Ah  me  !  't  was  needless  further  to  re- 
hearse 
The  old  romance,  that  life  has  ne'er 

belied, 
The  old  offence  which  love  repeats  to 

pride,  — 
The  strife,  the  supplication,  and  the 

curse 
Hung  like  a  thunder-cloud  above  the 

dawn, 
To  threat  the  day  :  it  better  seemed, 

tony 
Beyond  the  circle  of  that  sullen  sky, 
And  storms  let  idly  loose  when  we 

were  gone. 


5   WOMAN 

at 


199 


XXX 

"Darling,"  I  answered,  staking  all 
my  fate 

On  the  sole  chance  within  my  beg- 
gared hands,  — 

"Darling,  the  wealth  of  love  is  my 
estate, 

Save  one  poor  home,  that  in  a  valley 
stands, 

Cool,  dark,  and  lonesome,  far  beyond 
the  line 

Of  wintry  peaks  that  guard  the  sum- 
mer lands ; 

But  shelter  safe,  though  paler  suns 
may  shine, 

And  Paradise,  when  once  'tis  yours 
and  mine ! 

XXXI 

"  See !     I  am  all  I  give  :  I  cannot  ask 
That  you  should  leave  the  laurel  and 

the  rose, 
And  halls  of  yellowing  marble,  meant 

to  bask 
In  endless  sun,  and  airs  of  old  repose 
That  fan  the  beauteous  ages,  elsewhere 

lost,  — 
To  see  the  world  put  on  its  deathly 

mask 
Of  low,  gray  sky  and  ever-deepening 

snows, 
And  dip  its  bowers  in  darkness  and  in 

frost." 

XXXII 

"Nay,  let"  (she  cried)  "his  mellow 

marbles  shine 
In  Roman  noons,  —  his  fountains  flap 

the  airs, 
And  rank  and    splendor   crowd    his 

gilded  stairs, 
Wait  in  his  halls,  or  drink  his  ban- 
quet-wine, — 
So  ne'er  the  hateful  pomp  I  spurn  be 

mine; 
But  take  me,  love !  for  ah,  the  father, 

too, 
Who  for  his  early  claims  my  later  cares, 
Is  leagued  with  him,  —  and  I  am  left 

to  you  ! " 

XXXIII 

"  So,  then,  shall  Summer  cross  the 

Alpine  chain 
And  scare  the  autumn  crocus  from  the 

meads ; 


200 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


And  the  wan  naiads,  'mid  their  brittle 

reeds, 
Feel  the  chill  wave  its  languid  pulse 

regain, 
Wooing  the  azure  brook-flowers  into 

bloom 
To  greet  your  coming;  and  the  golden 

rain 
Of  beechen  forests  shall  your  path 

illume, 
Till  the  Year's  bonfire  burn  away  its 

gloom ! " 

xxxiv 

Thus,  at  her  words,  my  sudden  rap- 
ture threw 

Its  glory  on  the  scene  so  bleak  before, 

As  to  the  nightly  mariner  a  shore 

That  out  of  hollow  darkness  slowly 
grew, 

Seeming  huge  cliffs  that  menaced 
with  the  roar 

Of  hungry  surf,  when  Morning  lifts 
her  torch 

Flashes  at  once  to  gardens  dim  with 
dew, 

And  homes  and  temples  fair  with  pil- 
lared porch. 

xxxv 

"Away!"  was  Love's  command,  and 
we  obeyed  ; 

And  Chance  assisted,  ere  three  times 
the  sun 

Looked  o'er  the  planet's  verge,  that 
swiftly  spun 

To  bring  the  hour  so  perilously  de- 
layed 

My  fortune  with  Colonna's  now  was 
weighed  ; 

But  that  brief  time  of  love's  last  lib- 
erty— 

Pandolfo  called  to  Rome,  ere  aught 
betrayed 

His  daughter's  secret  —  turned  the 
scale  to  me. 

xxxvi 
My  mules  were  waiting  by  the  city 

gate, 
With  Gianni,  quick  to  lead  a  lover's 

fate 
Along  the  bridle-paths  of  Apennine,  — 
A  gallant  contadino,  whom  I  knew 
From  crown  to  sole,  each  joint  and 

clear-drawn  line 


Of  plaited  muscle,  healthy,  firm,  and 

true  ; 
And   midnight  struck,   as   from  the 

garden  came 
She  who  forsook  for  me  her  home  and 

name. 

XXXVII 

With  them  she  laid  aside  her  silken 

shell 
And  jewel-sparks,  and  chains  of  moony 

pearl,  — 
Bright,  babbling  toys,  that  of  her  rank 

might  tell,  — 
And  wore,  to  cheat  the  drowsy  sentinel, 
The  scarlet  bodice  of  a  peasant-girl, 
Her  wealth  the  golden  dagger  in  her 

hair: 
The  haughty  vestures  from  her  beauty 

fell, 
Leaving  her  woman,  simply  pure  and 

fair. 

XXXVIII 

The    gate    was    passed:    before    us, 

through  the  night, 
We   traced  the  dusky  road,  and  far 

away, 
Where  ceased  the  stars,  we  knew  the 

mountains  lay. 
There    must  we  climb  before    their 

shoulders,  white 
With  autumn  rime,  should  redden  to 

the  day  ; 
But  now  a  line  of  faintly-scattered 

light 
Plays  o'er  the  dust,  and  the  old  olives 

calls 
To   ghostly  life  above    the  orchard- 
walls. 

xxxix 

A  little  chapel,  built  by  pious  hands, 

That  foot-sore  pilgrims  from  the  blis- 
tering soil 

May  turn,  or  laborers  from  summer 
toil 

To  rest  that  breathes  of  God,  it  open 
stands ; 

And  there  her  shrine  with  daily  flow- 
ers is  dressed, 

Her  lamp  is  nightly  trimmed  and  fed 
with  oil, 

The  Mater  Dolorosa,  in  whose  breast, 

Bleeding,  the  seven  swords  of  woe  are 
pressed. 


THE   WOMAN 


201 


"Stay!"    whispered    Clelia,    as   the 

narrow  vault 
Yawned  with  its  faded  frescoes,  and 

the  lamp 
Revealed,  untouched  by  rust  or  blurred 

with  damp, 
The  Virgin's  face:  it  beckoned  us  to  halt 
And  lay  our  love  before  her  feet  divine, 
A  priestless  sacrament,  —  so  kneeling 

there 
In    self -bestowed    espousal,     Clelia' s 

prayer 
Spake  to  the  Mother's  heart  her  trust 

in  mine. 


"  O  Sorrowing  Mother  !  Heaven's  ex- 
alted Queen  ! 
Star  of    the    Sea!    Lily  among    the 

Thorns ! 
Clothed  with   the   sun,   while  round 

Thy  feet  serene 
The  crescent  planet  curves  her  silver 

horns, 
Be  Thou  my  star  to  still  this  trembling 

sea 
Within  my  bosom,  — let  the  love  that 

mourns 
One  with  the  love  that  here  rejoices,  be, 
Soothed  in  Thy  peace,  acceptable  to 

Thee! 

XLH 

"Thou  who  dost  hide  the  maiden's 
virgin  fear 

In  thine  enclosed  garden,  Fountain 
sealed 

Of  Woman's  holiest  secrets,  bend 
Thine  ear 

To  these  weak  words  of  one  whose 
heart  must  yield 

This  temple  of  the  body  Thou  didst 
wear 

To  love,  —  and  by  Thy  pity,  oft  re- 
vealed, 

Pure  Priestess,  hearken  to  Thy  daugh- 
ter's prayer. 

And  bless  the  bond,  of  other  blessing 
bare! 

XLIII 

"Mother  of  Wisdom,  in  whose  heart 

are  thrust 
The  seven  swords  of  Sorrow,  in  whose 

pain 


Thy  chaste  Divinity  draws  near  again 
To  maids  and  mothers,   crying  from 

the  dust,  — 
Who  ne'er  forgettest  any  human  woe, 
Once  doubly  Thine,  Thy  grace  and 

comfort  show, 
And  perfect  make,  O  Star  above  the 

Sea, 
These  nuptial  pledges,  only  heard  by 

Thee ! " 

XLIV 

Then  Clelia's  hand  entrusted  she  to 

mine, 
Who  knelt  beside  her,  and  the  vow 

she  spake, 
Weeping  :    "I  take  him,  Mother,  at 

Thy  shrine. 
Home,  country,  father,  leave  I  for  his 

sake, 
Give  my  pure  name,  my  maiden  honor 

break 
For  him,  my  spouse!"    And  I:  "I 

give  my  life, 
Chaste,  faithful  to  the  end,  to  her,  my 

wife, 
Whom  here,  O  Mother,  at  Thy  hands 

I  take  ! " 

XLV 

Thus,  in  the  lack  of  Earth's  ordaining 

rite, t 
Did  our  own  selves  our  union  conse- 
crate ; 
But  God  was  listening  from  the  hollow 

Night. 
Beyond  the  stars  we  felt  His  smile 

create 
Dawn  in  the  doubtful  twilight  of  our 

fate  : 
Peace  touched  our  hearts  and  sacredest 

content: 
The  veil  was  lifted  from  our  perfect 

light 
Of  nuptial  love,  pure-burning, reverent. 


The  Sorrowing    Mother  gazed.      So 

pure  the  kiss 
I  gave,  Her  own  divinest  lips  had  ta'en 
From  mine  no  trace  of  sense-reflected 

stain  ; 
But  Gianni  called  us  from  the  dream 

of  bliss. 
"Haste,    Signor,   haste!"  he   cried: 

' '  the  Bear  drops  low  : 


202 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


Soon  will  the  cocks  in  all  the  gardens 

crow 
The  morning  watch  :  day  comes,  and 

night  again, 
But  come  to  part,  not  mate,  unless 

you  go!" 

XL  VII 

Then  silent,  side  by  side,  we  forward 

fled 
Through  the  chill  airs  of  night :  each 

falling  hoof 
Beat  like  a  flail  beneath  the  thresher's 

roof, 
In  quick,  unvarying  time :  and  rosy- 
red 
Crept  o'er  the  gray,  as  nimbly  Gianni 

led 
Our  devious  flight  along  the  barren 

steeps, 
Till,  far  beyond  the   sinking,  misty 

deeps, 
The  sun  forsook  his  Adriatic  bed. 

XLVIII 

There  is  a  village  perched,  as  you 

emerge 
From  the  Santerno's  long  and  winding 

vale 
Towards  Imol&,  upon  the  cliffy  verge 
Of  the  last  northern  prop  of  Apen- 

nine,  — 
Old,  yellow  houses,  hinting  many  a 

tale 
Of  ducal  days  and  Este's  tragic  line, 
And  over  all  uplifted,  orange  pale 
Against  the  blue,  a  belfry  slim  and 

fine. 

XLIX 

With  weary  climbing  of  the  rocky 

stair 
Thither  we  came,    and    in  a  hostel 

rude 
Sat  down,  outworn,  to  breathe  securer 

air, 
Our  guide  dismissed,  nor  eyes  that 

might  intrude, 
Among    the  simple  inmates  of    the 

place. 
The  brightest  stars  of  heaven  watched 

o'er  us  there 
In  sweet  conjunction,  every  dread  to 

chase, 
To  close  the  Past,  and  make  the  Fu- 
ture fair. 


Ah,  had  we  dared  to  linger  in  that 
nest,  — 

To  watch  from  under  overhanging 
eaves, 

The  loaded  vines,  the  poplars'  twin- 
kling leaves,  — 

Afar,  the  breadth  of  the  Romagna's 
breast 

And  Massa's,  Lugo's  towers, — the 
little  stir 

Of  innocent  life,  caress  and  be  caressed, 

Rank,  Art,  and  Fame  among  the 
things  that  were, 

And  all  her  bliss  in  me,  as  mine  in  her ! 


But  Florence  was  too  near  :  my  pur- 
pose held 

To  bear  and  hide  our  happiness  afar 

In  the  dark  mountains,  lonely,  green- 
est-delled ; 

And  still,  each  night,  the  never-setting 
star 

We  followed  took  in  heaven  a  loftier 
stand,  — 

Sparkled  on  other  rivers,  other  towns, 

Glinting  from  icy  horns  and  snowy 
crowns 

Until  we  trod  the  green  Bavarian  land  I 

LII 

And  evermore,  behind  us  on  the  road, 

Pursuit,  a  phantom,  drove.  If  we 
delayed, 

Some  coward  pulse  our  meeting 
bosoms  frayed ; 

Our  tale  the  breezes  blew,  the  sun- 
shine glowed  ; 

The  stars  our  secret  ecstasies  betrayed : 

Drunk  with  our  passion's  vintage,  we 
must  fill 

The  cup  too  full,  and  tremble  lest  it 
spill,  — 

Obeying,  thus,  the  law  we  would 
evade. 

LTII 

Now,  from  that  finer  ether  sinking 

down 
Into  the  humble,  universal  air, 
The  images  of  many  a  human  care 
That,    wren-like,   build   beneath   the 

thatch  of  love, 
Came    round    us.     O'er    the  watery 

levels,  brown 


THE   WOMAN 


203 


With  autumn  stubble,  the  departing 
dove 

Cooed  her  farewell  to  summer  :  rainy  - 
cold 

Through  rocky  gates  the  yellow  Dan- 
ube rolled. 

LIV 

Grim  were  the  mountains,  with  their 

dripping  pines 
Planted  in  sodden  moss,  and  swiftly  o'er 
Their  crests   the  clouds  their  dying 

fleeces  tore : 
The  herd -boy,  from  his  lair  of  furze 

and  vines 
Peered    out,    beside    his   dogs ;    and 

forms  uncouth, 
The  axemen,  from  the  steeps  descend- 
ing, wore 
The    strength   of    manhood,    but   its 

grace  no  more,  — 
The  lust,  without  the  loveliness,  of 

youth ! 

LV 

The  swollen  streams  careered  beside 
us,  hoarse 

As  warning  prophets  in  an  evil  age, 

And  through  the  stormy  fastnesses 
our  course, 

Blown,  buffeted  with  elemental  rage, 

Fell,  with  the  falling  night,  to  that 
lone  vale 

I  pictured,  with  its  meads  of  crocus- 
bloom.  — 

Ah  me,  engulfed  and  lost  in  drowning 
gloom, 

The  helpless  sport  and  shipwreck  of 
the  °;ale  ! 


Where  now  the  bright  autumnal  bon- 
fires ?     Where 
The    gold    of    beechen    woods,    the 

prodigal 
And  dazzling  waste  of  color  in  its  fall  ? 
The    brook-flowers,    bluer    than    the 

morning-air  ? 
"  My  pomp  of  welcome  mocked  you, 

love  !  "  I  sighed  : 
"The   sign  was   false,  the  flattering 

dream  denied : 
Unkind  is  Nature,  yet  all  skies  are 

fair 
To  trusting  hearts,  when  once  their 

truth  is  tried  ! " 


LVTT 

But  Clelia  shuddered,  clinging  to  my 

heart 
When  the  low  roof  received  us,  and  the 

sound 
Of  threshing  branches  boomed  and 

whistled  round 
Our  cot,  that  stood  a  little  way  apart 
Against  the   forest,   from  the  village 

strayed, 
Where  cunning  workmen  in  their  pris- 
ons bound 
The  roaring  Fiend  of  Fire,  and  forced 

his  aid 
To  mould  the  crystal  wonders  of  their 

trade. 

Lvin 
Poor  was  our  home,   and  when  the 

rainy  sky 
Brought  forth  a  child  of  Night,  an 

Ethiop  day, 
And  still  the  turbid  torrents  thundered 

by, 

From  the  drear  landscape  she  would 

turn  away,  — 
Her  thoughts,  perchance,  where  gilded 

Florence  lay,  — 
To  hide  a  tear,  or  crush  a  rising  sigh, 
Then  sing  the  sweet  Italian  songs, 

where  run 
Twin  rills  of  words  and  music  into  one. 


I,  too,  beneath  the  low-hung  rafters 
saw 

In  dusk  that  filtered  through  the  nar- 
row panes, 

My  palette  spread  with  colors  dull  and 
raw, 

Once  ripe  and  juicy-fresh  as  blossom- 
stains. 

The  dim,  beclouded  season  never 
brought 

The  light  that  flatters  ;  but  its  mists 
and  rains 

Like  eating  rust  upon  my  canvas 
wrought, 

And  turned  to  substance  cold  the 
tinted  thought. 

LX 

Around  me  moved  a  rough  and  simple 

race 
Whose  natures,  fresh  and  uncontami- 

nate, 


204 


THE   PICTURE   OF    ST.  JOHN 


Gave  truth  to  life,  and  smoothed  their 
toilful  fate 

With  honesty  and  love  —  but  lacked 
the  grace 

Of  strength  allied  to  beauty,  or  the 
free 

Unconscious  charm  of  Southern  sym- 
metry, 

And  motions  measured  by  a  rhythm 
elate 

And  joyous  as  the  cadence  of  the  sea. 

LXI 

For  if,  at  times,  among  the  slaves  who 

fed 
The  ever-burning  kilns,  in  fiercest  glow 
Some  naked  torso  momently  would 

show 
Like  Hell's  strong  angel,    dipped  in 

lurid  red, 
No  model  this  for  Saviour,    seraph, 

saint, 
Ensphered  in  golden   ether :  Labor's 

taint 
Defaced  the  form,  and  here 't  were  vain, 

I  said, 
Some  lovely  hint  to  find,  and  finding, 

paint ! 

LXII 

Ah,  Art  and  Love !  Immortal  brother- 
gods, 

That  will  not  dwell  together,  nor  apart, 

Butmake  your  temple  in  your  servant's 
heart 

A  house  of  battle.  One  his  forehead 
nods 

In  drowsy  bliss,  and  will  not  be  dis- 
turbed, 

The  other's  eager  forces  work  un- 
curbed, 

Yet  most  in  each  the  other  lives ;  and 
each 

Mounts  by  the  other's  help  his  crown 
to  reach. 

LXIII 

To  Love  my  debt  was  greatest :  I  com- 
pelled 

Back  to  their  sleep  the  dreams  that 
stung  in  vain, 

And  folded  Clelia  in  a  love  which  held 

The  heart  all  fire,  although  its  flame 
was  nursed 

By  embers  borrowed  from  the  smoul- 
dering brain. 


For  her  had  Art  aspired  ;  but  now,  re- 
versed 
The  duty,  Art  for  her  must  abnegate 
Its  restless,  proud  resolves,  and  idly 
wait. 

LXIV 

The  rains  had  whitened  in  the  upper  air, 

And  left  their  chill  memorials  glitter- 
ing now 

On  Arber's  shoulders,  Ossa's  horned 
brow ; 

The  summer  forest  of  its  gold  wasbare ; 

Loud  o'er  the  changeless  pines  Novem- 
ber drove 

His  frosty  steeds,  through  narrowing 
days  that  wear 

No  light;  and  Winter  settled  from 
above, 

White,  heavy,  cold,  around  our  nest 
of  love. 

LXV 

The   sportive   fantasies  of  wind  and 

snow, 
The  corniced  billows  which  they  love 

to  pile, 
The  ermined  woods,  with  boughs  de- 
pending low, 
To  buttress  frozenly   each  darksome 

aisle, 
The  spectral  hills  which  twilight  veils 

in  dun, 
The  season's   hushing  sounds,  — my 

Clelia  won 
From  haunting  memories,  and  stayed 

awhile 
Her  homesick  pining  for  the  Tuscan 

sun. 

LXVI 

Only,  when  after  briefest  day,  the  moon 

Poured  down  an  icy  light,  and  all 
around 

Came  from  the  iron  woods  a  crackling 
sound, 

As  from  the  stealthy  steps  of  Cold, 
and  soon 

The  long-drawn  howl  of  famished 
wolf  was  heard 

Far  in  the  mountains,  like  a  shudder- 
ing bird 

Beside  my  heart  a  nestling  place  she 
found, 

And  smiled  to  hear  my  fond,  assur- 
ing word. 


THE   WOMAN 


205 


LXVII 

So  drifted  on,  till  Death's  white  shadow 

passed 
From  edged  air  and  stony  earth,  our 

fate  : 
Then  from  the  milder  cloud  and  loosen- 
ing blast 
Unto  his  sunnier  nooks  returning  late, 
Came  Life,  and  let  his  flowery  footprint 

stand. 
Softer  than  wing  of  dove,  the  winds  at 

last 
Kissed  where  they  smote ;  the  skies 

were  blue  and  bland, 
And  in  their  lap  reposed  the  ravished 

land. 

Lxvni 

Then  tears  of  gummy  crystal  wept 

the  pine, 
And  like  a  phantom  plume,  the  sea- 
green  larch 
Was  dropped  along    the  mountain's 

lifted  arch, 
And  morning  on  the  meadows  seemed 

to  shine, 
All  day,   in  blossoms :   cuckoo-songs 

were  sweet, 
And  sweet  the  pastoral  music  of  the 

kine 
Chiming  a  thousand  bells  aloft,  to  meet 
The  herdsman's  horn,  the  young  lamb's 

wandering  bleat ! 

LXIX 

Under  the  forest's  sombre  eaves  there 
slept 

Xo  darkness,  but  a  balsam-breathing 
shade, 

Rained  through  with  light :  the  hur- 
rying waters  made 

Music  amid  the  solitude,  and  swept 

Their  noise  of  liquid  laughter  from 
afar, 

Through  smells  of  sprouting  leaf  and 
trampled  grass, 

And  thousand  tints  of  flowery  bell  and 
star, 

To  sing  the  year's  one  idyl  ere  it  pass ! 

LXX 

And  down  the  happy  valleys  wan- 
dered we, 

Released  and  glad,  the  children  of  the 
sun,  — 

I  by  adoption  and  by  nature  she,  — 


And  still  our  love  a  riper  color  won 
From  the  strong  god  in  whom  all 

colors  burn. 
The  Earth  regained  her  ancient  alchemy 
To  cheat  our  souls  with  dreams  of 

what  might  be, 
And  never  is,  —  yet,  wherefore  these 

unlearn  ? 

LXXI 

For  they  reclothe  us  with  a  mantle,  lent 
From    the    bright  wardrobe   of    the 

Gods:  the  powers, 
The  glories  of  the  Possible  are  ours : 
We  breathe  the  pure,  sustaining  ele- 
ment 
Above  the  dust  of  life,  —  steal  fresh 

content 
From  distant  gleams  of  never-gath- 
ered flowers,  — 
Believing,  rise :  our  very  failures  wear 
Immortal  grace  from  what  we  vainly 
dare ! 

LXXII 

From  dreams  like  these  is  shaped  the 
splendid  act 

In  painters',  poets'  brains:  we  let 
them  grow, 

And  as  the  season  rolled  in  richer  flow 

To  summer,  from  their  waves  a  won- 
drous fact 

Uprose,  and  shamed  them  with  diviner 
glow,  — 

A  tremulous  secret,  mystic,  scarce- 
confessed, 

That,  star-like,  throbs  within  the 
coarsest  breast, 

And  sets  God's  joy  beside  His  crea- 
ture's woe. 


As  one  may  see,  along  some  April  rill, 

By  richest  mould  and  softest  dew- 
fall  fed, 

The  daybreak  blossom  of  a  daffodil 

Send  from  its  heart  a  tenderer  blos- 
som still, 

Flower  bearing  flower,  so  fair  a  mar- 
vel shed 

Its  bliss  on  Clelia's  being  ;  and  she 
smiled 

With  those  prophetic  raptures  which 
fulfil 

The  mother's  nature  ere  she  clasps  her 
child. 


206 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


LXXIV 

Between  our  hearts,  embracing  both, 

there  stole 
A  silent  Presence,  like  to  that  which 

reigns 
In  Heaven,  when  God  another  world 

ordains. 
Here,  in  its  genesis,  a  formless  soul 
Waited  the  living  garment  it  should 

wear 
Of  holiest  flesh,  though  ours  were  dark 

with  stains,  — 
Yet  clouds  that  blot  the  blue,  eternal 

air, 
Upon  their  folds  the  rainbow's  beauty 

bear! 

LXXV 

And  none  of  all  the  folk  we  moved 

among 
In  that  lone  valley,  whether  man  or 

maid, 
Or  weary  woman,  prematurely  wrung 
To  bear  the  lusty  flock  that  round  her 

played, 
But  spake  to  Clelia  in  a  gentler  tongue 
And  unto  her  their  timid  reverence 

paid, 
As,  in  her  life  repeated,  one  might  see 
Madonna's  pure  maternal  sanctity ! 

LXXVI 

All  knew  the  lady,  beautiful  and  tall, — 

Dark,  yet  so  pale  in  her  strange  loveli- 
ness, 

Whom  oft  they  saw  with  gliding  foot- 
step press 

The  meads,  the  forest's  golden  floor; 
and  all 

Knew  the  enchanted  voice,  whose 
alien  song 

Silenced  the  mountains,  till  the  wood- 
man lone 

His  axe  let  fall,  and  dreamed  and  lis- 
tened long,  — 

The  key -flower  plucked,  the  fairy  gold 
his  own ! 

LXXVII 

Never,  they  said,  did  year  its  bounty 

shower 
Soplenteously  upon  their  fields,  as  now. 
The  lady  brought  their  fortune  :  many 

a  vow 
Would  rise  to  help  her  in  her  woman's 

hour 


Of  pain  and  joy,  and  what  their  hands 

could  do 
(The  will  was  boundless,  though  so 

mean  the  power) 
Was  hers,  — their  queen,  the  fairest 

thing  they  knew 
Within  the  circle  of  the  mountains  blue. 

LXXVIII 

And  Autumn  came,  like  him  from 
Edom,  him 

With  garments  dyed,  from  Bozrah, 
glorious 

In  his  apparel ;  yet  his  gold  was  dim, 

His  crimsons  pale,  beside  the  splendors 
warm 

Wherewith  the  ripened  time  transfig- 
ured us. 

The  precious  atoms  drawn  from  heaven 
and  earth, 

And  rocked  by  Love's  own  music  into 
form, 

Compacted  lived:  a  soul  awaited  birth. 

LXXIX 

A  soul  was  born.     The  hazy -mantled 

sun 
Looked  in  on  Clelia,  radiant  as  a  saint 
Who  triumphs  over  torture,  pale  and 

faint 
From  parted  life,  —  and  kissed  the  life 

begun 
With  tender  light,  as  quick  to  recog- 
nize 
His  child,  in  exile:  the  unconscious 

one,  — 
Stray  lamb  of  heaven,   whom  tears 

might  best  baptize,  — 
Closed  on  her  happy  breast  his  mother's 

eyes. 

LXXX 

Her  eyes  they  were:  her  fresh-born 

beauty  took 
Its  seat  in  man,  that  woman's  heart 

might  bow 
One  day,  before  the  magic  of  that  look 
Which  conquered  man  and  held  him 

captive  now. 
The  frail  and  precious  mould  which 

drew  from  me 
Naught  but  its  sex,  her  likeness  did 

endow 
With  breathing  grace  and  witching 

symmetry, 
As  once  in  baby  demigod  might  be. 


THE   WOMAN 


207 


LXXXI 

So  came  from  him  —  as  in  Correggio's 

"Night" 
The  body  of  the  Holy  Child  illumes 
The  stable  dark,    the  starry  Syrian 

glooms, 
The  rapt,  adoring  faces,  — sudden  light 
For  that  dark  season  when  the  sun 

hung  low  ; 
And  warmth,  when  earth  again  lay 

cold  aud  white  ; 
And  peace,  Love  reconciled  with  Life 

to  know ; 
And  promise,  kindling  Art  to  rosier 

glow. 

Lxxxn 

Here  dawned  the  inspiration,  long  de- 
layed, 

The  light  of  loftier  fancy.  As  she 
pressed, 

Cradled  against  her  balmy  mother- 
breast, 

The  child  —  a  pink  on  sun-kissed  lilies 
laid  — 

I  saw  the  type  of  old  achievement  won 

In  them,  the  holy  hint  their  forms  con- 
veyed : 

And  lovelier  never  God's  Elected  Maid 

And  Goddess-Mother  dreamed  Urbino's 
son! 

Lxxxin 

But  she  —  when  first  mine  eager  hand 
would  seize 

Her  perfect  beauty  —  troubled  grew, 
and  pale. 

"Dear  Egon,  No!"  she  said:  "my 
heart  would  fail, 

Alarmed  for  love  that  wraps  in  sancti- 
ties 

Its  earthly  form :  for  see !  the  babe 
may  lie 

With  white,  untainted  soul,  and  in  his 
eye 

The  light  of  Heaven,  and  pure  as  al- 
mond-flowers 

His  dimpling  flesh,  — but,  Egon,  he  is 
ours  ! 

lxxxtv 

"  If  blessing  may  be  forfeited,  to  set 
A  child,  the  loveliest,  in  the  place  divine 
Of  Infant  God.  it  were  more  impiousyet 
To  veil  the  Mother's  countenance  in 
mine : 


Ah,   how  should  I,   to  human  love 

though  fair, 
Assume  her  grace  and  with  her  pity 

shine,  — 
Profane  usurpressof  her  sacred  shrine, 
To  cheat  the  vow  and  intercept  the 

prayer ! " 

LXXXV 

A  woman's  causeless  fancy !     What  I 

said 
I  scarce  remember,  —  that  the  face  I 

stole 
Had  brought  herself,  and  if  the  half 

so  wrought, 
A  surer  blessing  now  must  bring  the 

whole, 
And  laurel  cast,  not  jasmine,  on  my 

head. 
The    profanation    was    a     thing    of 

thought, 
Or  touched  the  artist  only  :  who  could 

paint, 
If  saint  alone  dare  model  be  for  saint  ? 

LXXXVI 

And  so,  by  Art  possessed,  I  would  not 

see 
Forebodings  which  in  woman's  finer 

sense 
Arise,  and  draw  their  own  fulfilment 

thence,  — 
Light  clouds,  yet  hide  the  bolts  of 

Destiny 
And  darken  life,  erelong.     I  gave,  in 

j°y> 

To  fleeting  grace  immortal  perma- 
nence, 

And  dreamed  of  coming  fame  for  all 
the  three, 

Myself,  the  fairest  mother,  and  the  boy! 

LXXXVH 

She  sat,  in  crimson  robe  and  mantle  blue, 
Fondling  the  child  in  holy  nakedness, 
Resigned  and  calm,  —  alas !   I  could 

not  guess 
The  haunting  fear  that  daily  deeper 

grew 
In  the  sweet  face  that  would  its  fear 

subdue, 
Nor  make  my  hand's  creative  rapture 

less: 
But  cold  her  kisses  to  my  own  replied, 
And    when     the    work      completed 

stood  — she  sighed. 


208 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


LXXXVIII 

And  from  that  hour  a  shadow  seemed 

to  hang 
Around  her  life  :  our  idyl  breathed  no 

more 
Its  flute-like  joy  in  every  strain  she 

sang : 
Her  step  the  measures  of  an  anthem 

wore, 
That  hushes,  soothes,  yet  makes  not 

wholly  sad ; 
And  if,  at  times,  my  heart  confessed  a 

pang 
To  note  the  haunted  gleam  her  features 

had, 
I  failed  to  read  the  prophecy  it  bore. 

LXXXIX 

Again  the  summer  beckoned  from  the 

hills, 
And  back  from  Daulis  came  the  night- 
ingale ; 
But    when    the  willows    shook    by 

meadow-rills 
Their  sheeted  silver,    Clelia's    cheek 

grew  pale. 
She  spoke  not ;  but  I  knew  her  fancy 

said  : 
So  shook  the  olives   now  in  Arno's 

vale, 
So  flashed  the  brook  along  its  pebbly 

bed, 
Through  bosky  oleanders,  roofed  with 

red  ! 


This  cheer  I  gave :  "Be  sure  my  fame 
awaits 

The  work  of  love  :  this  cloud  will 
break,  and  we 

Walk  in  the  golden  airs  of  Tuscany, 

Guarded  by  that  renown  which  conse- 
crates 

Our  fault,  if  love  be  such;  and  fame 
shall  be 

My  shield,  to  shame  your  father's  her- 
aldry, 

And  set  you  in  your  ancient  halls. 
Take  heart, 

And  as  my  love  you  trusted,  trust  my 
art ! " 

xci 

She  faintly  smiled,  —  if  smile  the  lips 

could  stir 
Which  more  of  yearning  than  of  hope 

expressed  ; 
A  filmy  mask  to  hide  the  warning 

guest 
Of  thought  which  evermore  abode  in 

her: 
And  then  she  kissed  me,  — not,  as  once 

with  fire 
And  lingering  sweetness  drawn  from 

love's  desire, 
But  soft,  as  Heaven's  angelic  messen- 
ger 
Might  touch  the  lips  of  prayer,  and 

make  them  blest  ! 


BOOK  III 


THE   CHILD 


Sad  Son  of  Earth,  if  ever  to  thy  care 
Some  god  entrust  the  dazzling  gift  of 

joy. 

Within  thy  trembling  hands  the  bur- 
den bear 

As  if  the  frailest  crystal  shell  it 
were, 

One  thrill  of  exultation  might  destroy ! 

Look  to  thy  feet,  take  heed  where 
thou  shalt  stand, 

And  arm  thine  eyes  with  fear,  thy 
heart  with  prayer, 

Like  one  who  travels  in  a  hostile 
land! 


ii 

For,  ever  hovering  in  the  heart  of  day 
Unseen,  above  thee  wait  the  Powers 

malign, 
Who  scent  thy  bliss  as  vultures  scent 

decay : 
Unveil  thy  secret,  give  one  gladsome 

sign, 
Send  up  one  thought  to  chant  beside 

the  lark 
In  airy  poise,  and  lo  !  the  sky  is  dark 
With  swooping  wings, — thy  gift  is 

snatched  away 
Ere  dies  the  rapture  which  proclaimed 

it  thine ! 


THE    CHILD 


209 


We  plan  the  houses  which  are  never 

built : 
The    volumes    which     our    precious 

thoughts  enclose 
Are  never  written :  in  the  falchion's  hilt 
Sleeps   nobler  daring   than   the   hero 

shows: 
And  never  Fate  allows  a  life  to  give 
The  measure  of  a  soul,  —  but  incom- 
plete 
Expression  and  imperfect  action  meet, 
To  form  the  tintless  sketch  of  what  we 
live. 


I  would  not  see  the  path  that  led  apart 
My  Clelia's  feet,  as/t  were  on  hills  of 

cloud, 
But  deemed  the  saintlier  light,  whereto 

I  bowed 
In  reverence  of  mine  adoring  heart, 
The  mother's  nature :   day  by  day  I 

smiled, 
As  higher,  further  drawn,  my  dreams 

avowed 
Diviner  types  of    beauty,  —  whence 

beguiled, 
Her  robes  of  heaven  I  wrapped  around 

her  child. 


Our  daily  miracle  was  he  :  a  bud 
Steeped  in  the  scents  of  Eden,  balmy 

fair, 
The  world's  pure  morning  bright  upon 

his  hair, 
And    life's    unopened    roses    in    his 

blood ! 
In  the  blank  eyes  of  birth  a  timorous 

star 
Of  wonder  sparkled,  as  the  soul  awoke, 
And    from    his  tongue  a  brook-like 

babbling  broke,  — 
A  strange,  melodious  language  from 

afar! 


His  body  showed,  in  every  dimpled 
swell, 

The  pink  and  pearl  of  Ocean's  loveli- 
est shell, 

And  swift  the  little  pulses  throbbed 
along 

Their  turquoise  paths,  the  soft  breast 
rose  and  fell 


As  to  the  music  of  a  dancing  song, 
And  all  the 

long 
To  babyhood,  and  breathe  from  every 

limb, 
Made  life  more  beautiful,  revealed  in 

him. 


His  mother's  face  I  dared  not  paint 
again, 

For  now,  infected  by  her  mystic  dread, 

The  picture  smote  me  with  reproach- 
ful pain ; 

But  often,  bending  o'er  his  cradle-bed 

To  learn  by  heart  the  wondrous  tints 
and  lines 

That  charmed  me  so,  my  kindling 
fancy  said  : 

"By  thee,  my  Cherub,  shall  mine  art 
be  led 

To  clasp  the  Truth  it  now  but  half 
divines ! 


"If  I  have  sinned,  to  set  thee  in  the 

place 
Of  Infant  God,  the  hand  that  here 

offends 
Shall  owe  its  cunning  to  thy  growing 

grace, 
And  from  thy  loveliness  make  late 

amends. 
Six  summers  more,  and  I  shall  bid 

thee  stand 
Before  me,  with  uplift,  prophetic  face, 
And  there  St.  John  shall  grow  beneath 

my  hand,  — 
A  bright  boy-angel  in  a  desert  land  I 


"Six    summers  more,    and  then,    as 

Ganymede's, 
Thy  rosy  limbs  against  the  dark-blue 

sky 
Shall  press  the  eagle's  plumage  as  he 

speeds  ; 
Or  darling  Hylas,  'mid   Scamander's 

reeds, 
Borrow  thy  beauty  :  six  again,  and  I 
Shall  from  thy  lithesome  adolescence 

take 
My    young    St.    George,   my  victor 

knight,  and  make 
Beneath    thy  sword  once  more   the 

Dragon  die ! 


2IO 


THE   PICTURE   OF  ST.  JOHN 


"  Art  thou  not  mine  ?  and  wilt  thou 
not  repay 

My  love  with  help  unconsciously  be- 
stowed ? 

In  thy  fresh  being,  in  its  bright  abode, 

Shall  I  not  find  rny  morning-star,  my 
day? 

Rejoice!  one  life,  at  least,  shall  death- 
less be,  — 

One  perfect  form  grow  ripe,  but  not 
decay : 

Through  mine  own  blood  shall  I  my 
triumph  see, 

And  give  to  glory  what  I  steal  from 
thee ! " 

XI 

One  day,  in  indolence  of  sheer  despair, 

I  sat  with  hanging  arm,  the  colors 
dried 

Upon  my  palette  :  sudden,  at  my  side 

Knelt  Clelia,  lifting  through  her  fall- 
ing hair 

A  look  that  stabbed  me  with  its  tear- 
ful care  ; 

And  words  that  came  like  swiftly- 
dropping  tears 

Made  my  heart  ache  and  shiver  in 
mine  ears, 

As  thus  in  sorrow  and  in  love  she  cried: 

XII 

"O  Egon,  mine  the  fault!  I  should 
have  dared 

Defy  the  compact,  —  should  have  set 
you,  love, 

As  far  in  station  as  in  soul  above 

These  mocking  wants  —  mine  idle 
fortune  shared 

With  your  achievement !  Coward 
heart,  that  fled 

The  post  of  righteous  battle,  and  pre- 
pared 

For  you,  whose  hand  and  brain  I 
could  not  wed, 

Meaning  to  bless,  a  martyrdom  in- 
stead ! 

XIII 

"I  hold  you  back,  alas!   when  you 

aspire ; 
I  chain  your  spirit  when  it  pants  to 

soar : 
I,  proud  to  kindle,  glad  to  feed  the 

fire, 


But  heap  cold  ashes  on  its  fading  core  ! 
Command  me,  Egon !   shall  I  seek  the 

sire 
Whose  lonely  house  might  welcome 

me  once  more, 
And  mine —  my  twain  beloved  ?    Let 

me  make 
This  late,  last  trial  for  our  future's 

sake  ! " 

xrv 
"Not    thine,   my  Clelia!"   soothing 

her,  I  said, 
"Not    thine    the    fault — nor   ours; 

but  Demons  wait 
To  thwart  the  shining  purposes  of 

Fate, 
And  not  a  crown  descends  on  any 

head 
Ere  half  its  fairest  leaves  are  plucked 

or  dead : 
Yet  be  it  as  thou  wilt,  —  who  bore 

thee  thence 
Must  in  thy  father's  house  thee  rein- 
state, 
Or  bear  —  not  thou  —  the  weight  of 

his  offence. 

xv 

"  Come,  thou  art  pale,  and  sad,  and 
sick  for  home, 

My  summer  lilly  —  nursling  of  the 
sun ! 

But  thou  shalt  blossom  in  the  breeze 
of  Rome, 

And  dip  thy  feet  in  Baise's  whisper- 
ing foam, 

And  in  the  torn  Abruzzi  valleys,  dun 

With  August  stubble,  watch  thy  wild 
fawn  run.  — 

I  swear  it !  With  the  melting  of  the 
snow, 

If  Fortune  or  if  Ruin  guide,  we  go  1 " 

XVI 

And  soon  there  came,  as  't  were  an 

answering  hint 
From  heaven,  the  tardy  gold  Madonna 

brought,  — 
But   I  unto    that   end     had     gladly 

wrought 
Heart's-blood  to  coin,  and  drained  the 

ruddy  mint 
Of  life,  again  the  mellow  songs  to  hear 
That  told  how  sunward  turned  her 

happy  thought : 


THE   CHILD 


211 


That  sang  to  sleep  her  soul's  unbodied 

fear, 
And  led  lier  through  the  darkness  of 

the  year ! 


Alas!  'twas  not  so  written.  Day  by 
day 

Her  cheek   grew   thin,    her    footstep 

faint  and  slow  : 
And  yet  so  fondly,  with  such  hopeful 

"  p'fry 

Her  pulses  beat,  they  masked  the 
coming  woe. 

Joy  dwelt  with  her,  and  in  her  eager 
breath 

His  cymbals  drowned  the  hollow  drums 
of  Death  : 

Life  showered  its  promise,  surer  to  be- 
tray. 

And  the  'false  Future  crumbled  fast 
away. 

xyiii 
Aye,  she  was  happy !    God  be  thanked 

for  this, 
That  she  was  happy  !  —  happier  than 

she  knew, 
Had  even  the  hope  that  cheated  her 

been  true ; 
For  from  her  face  there  beamed  such 

wondrous  bliss, 
As  cannot  find  fulfilment  here,    and 

dies. 
God's  peace  and  pardon  touched  me 

in  her  kiss, 
Heaven's  morning  dawned  and  bright- 
ened in  her  eyes, 
And  o'er  the  Tuscan  arched  remoter 

skies! 

XIX 

Dazzled  with  light,  I  could  not  see  the 

close 
So  near  and  dark,  and  every  day  that 

won 
Some  warmer  life  from  the  returning 

sun, 
Took  from  the  menaces  that  interpose 
Between  the  plan  and  deed.     I  dared 

to  dream 
Her  dreams,  and  paint  them  lovelier  as 

they  rose, 
Till  from  the  echoing  hollows  one  wild 

stream 
Sprang  to  proclaim  the  melting  of  the 

snows. 


XX 

Then  —  how  she  smiled!    And  I  the 

casement  wide 
To  that  triumphant  sound  must  throw, 

despite 
The  bitter  air  ;  and,  soothed  and  satis- 
fied, 
She  slept  until  the  middle  watch  of 

night. 
I  watched  beside  her  :  dim  the  taper's 

light 
Before  the  corner-shrine,  —  the  walls 

in  shade 
Glimmered,  but  through  the  window 

all  was  white 
In  crystal  moonshine,  and  the  winds 

were  laid. 


And  awe  and  shuddering  fell  upon  my 
soul. 

Out  of  the  silence  came,  if  not  a  sound, 

The  sense  of  sphery  music,  far,  pro- 
found, 

As  Earth,  revolving  on  her  moveless 
pole, 

Might  breathe  to  God  :  and  at  the  case- 
ment shone 

Something  —  a  radiant  bird  it 
seemed, — alone, 

And  beautiful,  and  strange  :  its  plumes 
around 

Played  the  soft  fire  of  stars  whence  it 
had  flown. 

XXII 

The  beak  of  light,  the  eye  of  flame,  — 

dispread 
The  hovering  wings,   as  winnowing 

music  out ; 
And  richer  still  the  glory  grew  about 
The  shadowy  room,  crept  over  Clelia's 

bed 
And  hung,  a  shimmering  circle,  round 

her  head : 
Then  marked  I  that  her  eyes  were  wide 

and  clear, 
Nor  wondered  at  the  vision.     All  my 

fear 
Fled  when  she  spoke,  and  these  the 

words  she  said : 


' '  Thou  call'st,  and  I  am  ready.  Ah,  I  see 
The  shining  field  of  lilies  in  the  moon, 
So  white,   so  fair!    Yet  how  depart 
with  thee, 


212 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


And  leave  the  bliss  of  threefold  life  so 

soon? 
Peace,  fainting  heart !    Though  sweet 

it  were  to  stay, 
Sweet  messenger,  thy  summons  I  obey : 
And  now  the  mountains  part,  and  now 

the  free 
Wide  ocean  gleams  beneath  a  golden 

day! 

XXIV 

' '  How  still  they  lie,  the  olive-sandalled 

slopes, 
The  gardens  and  the  towers!     But 

floating  o'er 
Their  shaded  sleep,  lo!  some  diviner 

shore, 
Deep   down  the  bright,  unmeasured 

distance,  opes 
Its  breathing  valleys :  wait  for  me !    I 

haste, 
But  am  not  free  :  till  morning  let  me 

taste 
The  last  regret  of  faithful  love  once 

more, 
Then  shall  I  walk  with  thee  yon  lilied 

floor!" 

XXV 

The  bright  Thing  fled,  the  moon  went 

down  the  west. 
Long   lay    she    silent,  sleepless;   nor 

might  I 
Break  with  a  sound  the  hush  of  ecstasy, 
The  strange,  unearthly  peace,  till  from 

his  rest 
The  child  awoke  with  soft,  imploring 

cry  : 
Then  she,  with  feeble  hands  outreach- 

ing,  laid 
His  little  cheek  to  hers,   and  softly 

made 
His  murmurs  cease  upon  her  mother- 
breast. 

XXVI 

My  trance  dissolved  at  once,  and  fall- 
ing prone 

In  agony  of  tears,  as  falls  a  wave 

With  choked  susurrus  in  some  hol- 
low cave, 

Brake  forth  my  life's  lament  and 
bitter  moan. 

I  shook  with  passionate  grief  :  I  mur- 
mured :  "Stay! 

Have  I  not  sworn  to  give  thee  back 
thine  own  ? 


False  was  the  token,   false  ! "     She 

answered  :   ' '  1ST  ay, 
It  says,  Farewell !  and  yonder  dawns 

the  day." 

XXVII 

No  more!      I    said    farewell:    with- 
drawn afar, 
Still  faintly  came  to  me,  its  clasping 

shore, 
When  morning  drowned  the  wintry 

morning-star, 
Her  ebbing  life;   then  paused  — and 

came  no  more  ! 
And  blue  the  mocking  sky,  and  loud 

the  roar 
Of  loosened  waters,  leaping  down  the 

glen : 
The  songs  of  children  and  the  shouts 

of  men 
Flouted  the    awful    Shadow  at   my 

door! 

XXVIII 

And  chill  my  heart  became,  a  sepul- 
chre 

Sealed  with  the  sudden  ice  of  frozen 
tears : 

I  sat  in  stony  calm,  and  looked  at 
her, 

Flown  in  the  brightness  of  her  beau- 
teous years, 

And  not  a  pulse  with  conscious  sor- 
row beat ; 

Nor,  when  they  robed  her  in  her 
winding-sheet, 

Did  any  pang  my  silent  bosom  stir, 

But  pain,  like  bliss,  seemed  of  the 
things  that  were. 


With  cold  and  changeless  face  beside 
her  grave 

I  stood,  and  coldly  heard  the  shudder- 
ing sound 

Of  coffin  echoes,  smothered  under- 
ground : 

The  tints  I  marked,  the  mournful 
mountains  gave,  — 

Faces  and  garments  of  the  throngs 
around,  — 

The  sexton's  knotted  hands,  the  light 
and  shade 

That  strangely  through  the  moving 
colors  played,  — 

So,  feeling  dead,  Art's  habit  held  me 
bound ! 


THE   CHILD 


213 


Yet,  very  slowly,  Feeling's  self  was 

born 
Of  chance  forgetf ulness :  when  mead- 
ows took 
A  greener  hem  along    the  winding 

brook, 
And  buds  were  balmy  in  the  fresh 

May-morn, 
Oft  would  I  turn,  as  though  her  step 

to  wait ; 
Or  ask  the  songless  echoes  why  so  late 
Her  song  delayed  ;  or  from  my  lonely 

bed 
At  midnight  start,  and  weep  to  find 

her  fled ! 

XXXI 

And  with  the  pains  of  healing  came  a 

care 
For  him,  her  child:  she  had  not  wholly 

died  ; 
And  what  of  her  lost  being  he  might 

wear 
Was  doubly  mine    through  all    the 

years  untried, 
To  love,    and  give  me  love.      Him 

would  I  bear 
Beyond  the  Alps,  forth  from  this  fatal 

zone, 
To  make  his  mother's  land  and  speech 

his  own, 
And  keep  her  beauty  at  his  father's 

side ! 

XXXII 

So  forth  we  fared  :  the  faithful  pea- 
sant nurse 
"Who   guarded  now  his  life,    should 

guard  it  still. 
"We    hastened    on  :    there  seemed    a 

brooding  curse 
Upon  the  valley.    Many  a  brawling  rill 
"We  left  behind,  and  many  a  darksome 

hill, 
Long  fens,  and  clay-white  rivers  of 

the  plain, 
Then  mountains  clad  in  thunder,  — 

and  again 
Soared  the  high  Alps,  and  sparkled, 

white  and  chill. 

XXXIII 

To  seek  some  quiet,  southward-open- 
ing vale 
Beside  the  Adige,  was  my  first  design ; 


And  sweetly  hailed  along  the  Bren- 
ner's line 

With  songs  of  Tyrol,  welcomed  by 
the  gale 

That  floated  from  the  musky  slopes 
of  vine, 

With  summer  on  its  wings,  I  wan- 
dered down 

To  fix  our  home  in  some  delightful 
town,  — 

But  when  the  first  we  reached,  there 
came  a  sign. 

xxxiv 

The  bells  were  tolling,  — not  with 
nuptial  joy, 

But  heavily,  sadly :  down  the  wind- 
ing street 

The  pattering  tumult  came  of  chil- 
dren's feet, 

Followed  by  men  who  bore  a  snow- 
pale  boy 

Upon  a  flowery  bier.  The  sunshine 
clung, 

Caressing  brow  and  cheek, — he  was 
so  young 

Even  Nature  felt  her  darling's  loss,  — 
and  sweet 

The  burial  hymn  by  childish  mourners 
sung. 

XXXV 

"He  must  not  see  the  dead ! "     Thus 

unto  me 
The  nurse,    and    muffled    him  with 

trembling  hand. 
But  something  touched,  in  that  sad 

harmony, 

afant's  sc 

was  free 
A  moment,  saw  the  dead,  nor  could 

withstand 
The  strange  desire  that  hungered  in 

his  eye, 
And  stretched    his   little  arms,   and 

made  a  cry,  — 
While  she,  in  foolish  terror,  turned  to 
,  me : 

XXXVI 

"Now,  God  have  mercy,  master!  rest 
not  here, 

Or  he  will  die  !  "  'T  was  but  the  cause- 
less whim 

Of  ignorance,  and  yet,  a  formless 
fear 


2I4 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


O'ercame  my  heart,  and  darkly  men- 
aced him 

As  with  his  mother's  fond,  foreboding 
dread : 

Then  wild  with  haste  to  lift  the  shadow 
dim 

Which  seemed  already  settling  round 
his  head, 

That  hour  we  left,  and  ever  southward 
sped. 

XXXVII 

Past    wondrous    mountains,    peaked 

with  obelisks, 
With  pyramids  and  domes  of  dolomite 
That  burned  vermilion  in  the  dying 

light,  — 
Crags  where  the  hunter  with  a  thou- 
sand risks 
The     steinbok    follows,  —  world     of 

strength  and  song 
Under  the  stars,   among  the  fields  of 

white, 
While  deep    below,   the    broad  vale 

winds  along 
Through  corn  and  wine,  secure  from 

winter's  wrong ! 

XXXVIII 

My  plan  complete,  the  foolish  servitress 

Back  to  her  dark  Bohemian  home  I 
sent, 

And  gave  my  boy  to  one  whose  gentle- 
ness 

Fell  gentlier  from  her  Tuscan  tongue. 
We  went 

By  lonely  roads,  where  over  Garda's 
lake 

Their  brows  the  cloven-hearted  moun- 
tains bent, 

To  lands  divine,  where  Como's  waters 
make 

Twin  arms,  to  clasp  them  for  their 
beauty's  sake ! 

XXXIX 

There  ceased  my  wanderings,  finding 

what  I  sought: 
The  charms  of  water,  earth,  and  air 

allied,  — 
Secluded  homes,  with  prospects  free 

and  wide 
Around     a     princely    world,     which 

thither  brought 
Only  the  aspect  of  its  holiday, 
And  made  i  ts  emulous,  unsleeping  pride 


Put  on  the  yoke  of  Wature,  and  obey 
Her  mood  of  ornament,  her  summer 
play. 

XL 

The  shapely  hills,  whose  summits  tow- 
ered remote 
In  rosy  air,  might  smile  in  soft  disdain 
Of  palaces  that  strung  a  jewelled  chain 
About  their  feet,  and  far-off,  seemed 

to  float 
On  violet-misted  waters ;  yet  they  wore 
Their  groves  and  gardens  like  a  festal 

train, 
And  in  the  mirror  of  the  crystal  plain 
Steep  vied  with  steep,  shore  emulated 
shore ! 


Above  Bellagio,  on  the  ridge  that  leans 
To  meet,  on  either  side,  the  parted 

blue 
There  is  a  cottage,  which  the  olive 

screens 
From  sight  of  those  who  come  the 

pomp  to  view 
Of  Villa  Serbelloni :  thrust  apart 
Beside  a  quarry  whence  the  pile  they 

drew,  — 
A  home  for  simple  needs  and  straitened 

means, 
For  lonely  labor  and  a  brooding  heart. 

XLII 

Too  young  was  I,  too  filled  with  blood 

and  fire, 
To  clothe  myself  with  ultimate  de- 
spair. 
Drinking  with  eager  breast  that  idle  air, 
Color    with    eyes    new-bathed,    that 

could  not  tire, 
And  stung  by  form,  and  wooed  by 

moving  grace, 
And  warmed  with  beauty,  should  I 

not  aspire 
My  misty  dreams  with  substance  to 

replace, 
Nor  ghosts  beget,  but  an  immortal 

race? 

XLTII 

Yea!    rather    close,   as    in  a  sainted 

shrine, 
My  life's  most  lovely,  tender  episode, 
Renounce  the  ordination  it  bestowed, 
And  only  taste  its  sacramental  wine 


THE   CHILD 


215 


In  those    brief    Sabbaths,   when  the 

heart  demands 
Solemn  repose  and  sustenance  divine ! 
Yet  lives  the  Artist  in  these  restless 

hands, 
And  waiting,  here,  the  rich  material 

stands ! 


Had  I  not  sought,  I  asked  myself,  the 
far 

Result,  and  haughtily  disdained  the 
source  ? 

From  myriad  threads  hangs  many- 
stranded  Force,  — 

Compact  of  gloomy  atoms,  burns  the 
star ! 

Of  earth  are  all  foundations;  and  of  old 

On  mounds  of  clay  were  lifted  to  their 
place 

Shafts  of  eternal  temples.     We  behold 

The  noble  end,  whereto  no  means  are 
base. 


I  loved  my  work ;  and  therefore 
vowed  to  love 

All  subjects,  finding  Art  in  every- 
thing, — 

The  angel's  plumage  in  the  bird's  plain 
wing,  — 

Until  such  time  as  I  might  rise  above 

The  conquered  matter,  to  the  power 
supreme 

Which  takes,  rejects,  adorns, — a 
rightful  king, 

Whose  hand  completes  the  subtly- 
hinted  scheme, 

And  blends  in  equal  truth  the  Fact 
and  Dream ! 

XLYT 

And  now  commenced  a  second  life, 
wherein 

Myself  and  Agatha  and  Angelo 

Beheld  the  lonely  seasons  come  and  go, 

Contented,  — whether  gray  with  hoar- 
frost thin 

The  aloes  stiffened,  or  the  passion- 
flower 

Enriched  the  summer  heats,  or  autumn 
shower 

Rejoiced  the  yellow  fig-leaves  wide  to 
blow :  — 

So  still  that  life,  we  scarcely  felt  its 
flow. 


XLVTT 

How  guileless,  sweet,  the  infancy  he 

knew, 
Loved  for  his  own  and  for  his  mother's 

sake! 
How  fresh    in  sunny  loveliness    he 

grew, 
Fanned  by  the  breezes  of  the  Larian 

lake. 
My  little  Angelo,  my  baby-friend, 
My  boy,    my   blessing  !  —  while    for 

him  I  drew 
A  thousand   futures,  brightening   to 

the  end  ; 
Long  paths  of    light,    with  ne'er  a 

cloudy  break ! 

XL  VIII 

For,  lisping  in  a  sweeter  tongue  than 

mine, 
'T  was  his  delight  around  the  spot  to 

play 
Where  fast  I  wrought  in  unillusive 

day,— 
Where  he  might  chase  from  rock  or 

rustling  vine 
The  golden  lizard;  seek  the  mellow 

peach, 
Wind-shaken  ;   or,  where  spread  the 

branchy  pine 
His  coverture  of  woven  shade  and 

shine, 
Sleep,    lulled    by    murmurs    of    the 

pebbly  beach. 

XLIX 

Along    San  Primo's  chestnut- shaded 

sides, 
Through   fields  of  thyme  and  spiky 

lavender 
And  yellow  broom,  wherein  the  she- 
goat  hides 
Her  yeanling  kid,  and  wild  bees  ever 

stir 
The    drifted    blossoms, — high    and 

breezy  downs,  — 
I  led  his  steps,  and  watched  his  young 

eye  glance 
In  brightening  wonder  o'er  the  fair 

expanse 
Of  mountain,  lake,  and  lake-reflected 

towns  ! 


Or,  crossing  to  the  lofty  Leccan  shore, 
I  bade  him  see  the  Fiume-latte  leap 


2l6 


THE   PICTURE  OF   ST.   JOHN 


Through  shivered  rainbows  down  the 
hollow  steep, 

A  meteor  of  the  morning ;  high  and 
hoar 

The  Alp  that  fed  it  leaned  against  the 
blue,  — 

But  siren-voices  chanted  in  the  roar, 

Enticing,  mocking:  shudderingly  he 
drew 

Back  from  the  shifting  whirls  of  end- 
less dew. 


'T  was  otherwise,  when  borne  in  dan- 
cing bark 

Across  the  wave,  where  Sommariva's 
walls 

Flash  from  the  starred  magnolia's 
breathing  dark, 

High  o'er  its  terraced  roses,  fountain- 
falls 

And  bosky  laurels.    In  that  garden  he 

Chirruped  and  fluttered  like  a  callow 
lark, 

With  dim  fore-feeling  of  the  azure  free, 

Sustaining  wing  and  strength  of  song- 
ful glee  ! 


No  thing  that  I  might  paint,  —  a  sun- 
set cloud, 

A  rosy  islet  of  the  amber  sky,  — 

A  lily-branch,  —  the  azure-emerald 
dye 

Of  neck  and  crest  that  makes  the  pea- 
cock proud,  — 

Or  plume  of  fern,  or  berried  ivy -braid, 

Or  sheen  of  sliding  waters,  —  e'er 
could  vie 

With  the  least  loveliness  his  form 
conveyed 

In  outline,  motion,  daintiest  light  and 
shade. 


Not  yet  would  I  indulge  the  rapturous 
task, 

The  crown  of  labor ;  though  my 
weary  brain 

Ached  from  the  mimicry  of  Nature's 
mask, 

And  yearned  for  human  themes.  It 
was  in  vain, 

My  vow,  that  patient  bondage  to  sus- 
tain : 

Some  unsubdued  desire  began  to  ask  : 


"  How  shall  these  soulless  images  be 
warmed  ? 

Or  Life  be  learned  from  matter  unin- 
formed?" 


''Then    Life!"   I    said:    "but  cau- 
tiously and  slow,  — 
Pure  human  types,   that,   from    the 

common  base 
By  due  degrees    the    spirit  find  its 

place, 
And  climb  to  passion  and  supernal 

glow 
Of   Heaven's   beatitude.    The    level 

track 
Once  let  me  tread,  nor  need  to  stoop 

so  low 
Beneath  my  dreams,  and  thus  their 

hope  efface,  — 
But  late,  in  nobler  guise,  receive  them 

back." 

lv 

So,  venturing  no  further,  I  began 
The  work  I  craved,  and  only  what  I 

found 
In  limber  child,  or  steely-sinewed  man, 
Or  supple  maiden,  drew  :  within  that 

bound 
Such  excellence  I  saw,  as  told  how 

much, 
Despising  truth,  I  strayed :  with  rev- 
erent touch 
God's  architecture  did  my  pencil  trace 
In  joint  and  limb,  as  in  the  godlike 
face. 

LVI 

Each  part  expressed  its  nicely-mea- 
sured share 
In  the  mysterious  being  of  the  whole : 
Not  from  the  eye  or  lip  looked  forth 

the  soul, 
But  made  her  habitation  everywhere 
Within  the  bounds  of  flesh  ;  and  Art 

might  steal, 
As  once,  of  old,  her  purest  triumphs 

there. 
Go  see  the  headless  Ilionfius  kneel, 
And  thou  the  torso's  agony  shalt  feel! 


The  blameless  spirit  of  a  lofty  aim 
Sees  not  a  line  that  asks  to  be  con- 
cealed 


THE   CHILD 


217 


By  dexterous  evasion ;  but,  revealed 
As  truth  demands,  doth  Nature  smite 

with  shame 
Them,  who  with  artifice  of  ivy-leaf 
Unsex   the  splendid   loins,   or  shrink 

the  frame 
From  life's  pure  honesty,  as  shrinks 

a  thief, 
While  stands  a  hero  ignorant  of  blame ! 

Lvni 
What  joy  it  was,  from  dead  material 

forms, 
Opaque,  one-featured,  and  unchange- 
able, 
To  turn,  and  track  the  shifting  life 

that  warms 
The  shape  of  Man !  —  within  whose 

texture  dwell 
Uncounted  lines  of  beauty,  tints  un- 

guessed 
On  luminous  height,  in  softly -shaded 

dell, 
And  myriad  postures,  moving  or  at 

rest,  — 
All  phases  fair,  and  each,  in  turn,  the 

best! 


The  rich  ideal  promise  these  convey, 
Which    in   the  forms  of  Earth    can 

never  live. 
Each  plastic  soul  has  yet  the  power  to 

give 
A  separate  model  to  its  subject  clay, 
And  finely  works  its  cunning  likeness 

out : 
To  men  a  block,  to  me  a  statue  lay 
In    each,    distinct  in    being,   draped 

about 
With  mystery,  touched  with  Beauty's 

random  ray  I 


Now  Fame  approached,  when  I  ex- 
pected least 

Her  noisy  greeting:  'twas  the  olden 
tale. 

Half -scornfully  I  gave  ;  yet  men  in- 
creased 

Their  golden  worth,  the  more  I  felt 
them  fail, 

My  painful  counterfeits  of  lifeless 
things. 

"Behold!"  they  cried:  "this  won- 
drous artist  brings 


Each  leaf  and  vein  of  meadow-blos- 
soms pale, 

The  agate's  streaks,  the  meal  of  mothy 
wings ! " 


And  truly,  o'er  a  wayside-weed  they 
raised 

A  sound  of  marvel,  found  in  lichen- 
rust 

Of  ancient  stones  a  glory,  stood  amazed 

To  view  a  melon,  gray  with  summer 
dust, 

And  so  these  rudimental  labors  praised, 

The  Tempter  whispered  to  my  flattered 
ear: 

"Why  seek  the  unattained, — thy 
fame  is  here  !  " 

"Avaunt!"  I  cried:  "in  mine  own 
soul  I  trust ! " 

LXII 

A  little  while,  I  thought,  and  I  shall 

know 
The  stamp  and  sentence  of  my  des- 
tiny, — 
The  fateful    crisis,   whence   my  life 

shall  be 
A  power,   a    triumph,   an    immortal 

show, 
A  kindling  inspiration :  or  be  classed 
(As  many  a  noble  brother  in  the  Past) 
Pictor  Ignotus  :  as  it  happens,  so 
Shall  turn  the  fortunes  of  my  Angelo ! 

LXIII 

For  in  his  childish  life,  expanding  now, 
The  spirit   dawned   which  must   his 

future  guide,  — 
The  little  prattler,  with  his  open  brow, 
His  clear,  dark  eye,   his  mouth  too 

sweet  for  pride, 
Too  proud  for  infancy  !     ' '  My  boy, 

decide," 
I  said :    ' '  wilt  painter  be  ?   or  rather 

lord 
Over  a  marble    house,    a  steed  and 

sword  ?  " 
His  visage  flashed :  he  paused  not,  but 

replied : 

LXIV 

"Give  me  a  marble  house,  as  white 

and  tall 
As  Sommariva's!     Give  me  horse  and 

hound, 


2l8 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


A  golden  sword,  and  servants  in  the 

hall, 
And  thou  and  I  he  masters  over  all, 
My  father  ! "     In  that  hope  a  joy  he 

found, 
And  oft  in  freaks  of  fancied  lordship 

made 
The  splendors  his :  ah,  boy  1  thy  wish 

betrayed 
The  blood  that  beats  to  rise,  and  dare 

not  fall. 

LXV 

Did  Clelia's  spirit  yearn,  what  time 
she  bore 

The  unborn  burden,  for  her  lost 
estate  ? 

Home-sick  and  pining,  lorn  and  deso- 
late 

Except  for  love,  did  she,  in  thought, 
count  o'er 

The  graceful  charms  of  that  luxurious 
nest 

Wherefrom  I  stole  her  ?  Then  was  I 
unblest, 

Save  he  inherited  her  pilfered  fate, 

And  trod,  for  her,  Pandolfo's  palace- 
floor. 

LXVI 

The  current  of  my  dreams,  directed 
thus, 

Flowed  ever  swifter,  evermore  to  him. 

Along  the  coves  where  stripling  boat- 
men swim 

I  watched  him  oft,  like  Morn's  young 
Genius, 

Dropped  from  her  rose-cloud  on  the 
silver  sand, 

Her  rosy  breath  upon  each  ivory  limb 

Kissed  by  the  clasping  waters,  green 
and  dim, 

And  craved  the  hour  when  he  should 
bless  my  hand. 

LXVII 

The  seasons  came  and  went.     In  sun 

or  frost 
Twinkled  the  olive,  shook  the  aspen 

bough: 
In  winter  whiteness  shone  Legnone's 

brow, 
Or  cooled   his  fiery  rocks   in  skyey 

blue 
When  o'er  the  ruffled  lake  the  breva 

tossed 


The  struggling  barks:  their  cups  of 
snow  and  dew 

The  dark  magnolias  held,  and  purpling 
poured 

The  trampled  blood  from  many  a  vine- 
yard's hoard. 

LXVIII 

Five  years  had  passed,  and  now  the 

time  was  nigh 
When  on  the  fond  result  my  hand 

must  stake 
Its     cunning,  —  when     the     slowly* 

tutored  eye 
Must  lend  the  heart  its  discipline,  to 

make 
Secure  the  throbbing  hope,  to  which 

elate, 
My  long  ambition  clung :  and,  with  a 


"If  foiled,"  I  said,  "let  silence  conse- 
crate 

My  noteless  name,  and  hide  my  ruined 
fate ! " 

LXIX 

It  was  an  autumn  morn,  when  I  ad- 
dressed 
Myself  unto  the  work.  A  violet  haze 
Subdued  the  ardor  of  the  golden  days : 
A  glassy  solitude  was  Como's  breast : 
Far,  far  away,  from  out  the  fading 

maze 
Of  mountains,    blew    the    flickering 

sound  of  bells  : 
The  earth  lay  hushed  as  in  a  Sabbath 

rest, 
And    from    the    air    came   voiceless, 
sweet  farewells ! 


My  choicest  colors,    on    the  palette 

spread, 
Provoked  the  appetite  :    the  canvas 

clear 
Wooed  from  the  easel :  o'er  his  noble 

head 
The  faint  light  fell :  his  perfect  body 

shed 
A  sunny  whiteness    on    the    atmos- 
phere, — 
All  aspects  gladsomely  invited  :  yet 
Across  my  heart  there  swept  a  wave 

of  dread,  — 
The  first    lines  trembled  which  my 

crayon  set. 


THE   CHILD 


219 


LXXI 

The   background,   lightly    sketched, 

revealed  a  wild 
Storm-shadowed  sweep  of  Amnion's 

desert  hills, 
Whose  naked  porphyry  no  dew-fed 

rills 
Touched  with  descending  green,  but 

rent  and  piled 
As  thunder-split :  behind  them,  glim- 
mering low, 
The  falling  sky  disclosed  a  lurid  bar : 
In  front,  a  rocky  platform,  where,  a 

star 
Of  lonely  life,  I  meant  his  form  should 

glow, 

LXXII 

The  God-selected  child,  there  should 
he  stand, 

Alone  and  rapt,  as  from  the  world 
vrithdrawn 

To  seek,  amid  the  desolated  land, 

His  Father's  counsel :  in  one  tender 
hand 

A  cross  of  reed,  to  lightly  rest  upon, 

The  other  hand  a  scrolled  phylac- 
tery 

Should,  hanging,  hold,  —  as  it  the 
seed  might  be 

Wherefrom  the  living  Gospel  shall 
expand. 

Lxxin 
A    simple    theme :     why,    therefore, 

should  my  faith 
In  mine  own  skill  forsake  me  ?  why 

should  seem 
His  beauteous  presence  strangely  like 

a  dream,  — 
His    shining    form   an  unsubstantial 

wraith  ? 
Was   it   the   mother's  warning,  thus 

impressed 
To  stay  my  hand,  or,  working  in  my 

breast, 
That  dim,  dread  Power,  that  monitor 

supreme, 
Whose  mystic  ways  and  works  no 

Scripture  saith  ? 

LXXTV 

I  dropped  the  brush,  and,  to  assure 

my  heart. 
Now  vanquished  quite,  with   quick, 

impassioned  start 


Caught  up  the  boy,  and  kissed  him 
o'er  and  o'er,  — 

Cheek,  bosom,  limbs,  —  and  felt  his 
pulses  beat 

Secure  existence,  till  my  dread,  dis- 
pelled, 

Became  a  thing  to  smile  at:  then, 
once  more 

My  hand  regained  its  craft,  and  fol- 
lowed fleet 

The  living  lines  my  filmless  eyes  be- 
held. 

LXXV 

And  won  those  lines,  and  tracked 
the  subtle  play 

Where  cold,  keen  light,  without  a 
boundary, 

Through  warmth,  lapsed  into  shad- 
ow's mystic  gray, 

And  other  light  within  that  shadow 
lay, 

A  maze  of  beauty,  —  till,  outwearied, 
he 

With  drooping  eyelid  stood  and  tot- 
tering knee  ; 

While  I,  withdrawn  to  gaze,  with 
eager  lip 

Murmured  my  joy  in  mine  own  work- 
manship. 

LXXVI 

I  clothed  his  limbs  again,  and  led  him 
out 

To  welcome  sunshine  and  his  glad 
reward, 

A  scarlet  belt,  a  tiny,  gilded  sword,  — 

And  long  our  bark,  the  sleeping  shores 
about 

Sped  as  we  willed,  that  happy  after- 
noon : 

And  sweet  the  evening  promise  (ah ! 
too  soon 

It  came,)  of  what  the  morrow  should 
afford,  — 

An  equal  service  and  an  equal  boon! 


But  on  the  pier  a  messenger  I  found 
From    Milan,    where    the    borrowed 

name  I  bore 
Was  known,  he  said,  and  more  than 

half-renowned, 
And  now  a  bright  occasion  offered  me 
A  fairer  crown  than  yet  my  forehead 

wore,  — 


220 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


A  range  of  palace-chambers  to  adorn 
With   sportive    frescoes,    nymphs  of 

Earth  and  Sea, 
Pursuing  Hours,  and  marches  of  the 

Morn  ! 

LXXVIII 

It  steads  not  now  that  journey  to  re- 
peat, 
Which  flattered,  toyed,  but  nothing 

sure  bestowed. 
When  four  unrestful  days  were  sped, 

my  feet, 
With    yearning    shod,    retraced    the 

homeward  road, 
With  each  glad  minute  nearing  our 

retreat,  — 
Mine  eyes,  when  far  away  Bellagio 

showed 
Beyond  Tremezzo,  straining  to  explore 
Some  speck  of  welcome  on  the  distant 

shore. 

LXXIX 

Then  came  the  town,  the  vineyards 

and  the  hill, 
The  cottage :  soft  the  orange  sunset 

shone 
Upon  its  walls,  —  but  everything  was 

still, 
So  still  and  strange,  my  heart  might 

well  disown 
The  startled  sense  that  gazed :   the 

door  ajar,  — 
The  chambers  vacant,  —  ashes  on  the 

stone 
Where  lit  his  torch  my  shy,  protect- 
ing Lar,  — 
Dark,  empty,  lifeless  all :  I  stood  alone ! 

LXXX 

As  one  who  in  an  ancient  forest  walks 

In  awful  midnight,  when  the  moon  is 
dim, 

And  knows  not  What  behind,  or  near 
him,  stalks, 

And  fears  the  rustling  leaf,  the  snap- 
ping limb, 

And  cannot  cry,  and  scarce  can 
breathe,  so  great 

The  nameless  Terror,  —  thus  I  sought 
for  him, 

Yet  feared  to  find  him,  lest  the  dark- 
est fate 

Should  touch  my  life  and  leave  it  des- 
olate ! 


LXXXI 

The  search  was  vain:  they  both  had 

disappeared, 
My  boy  and  Agatha,  nor  missed  I 

aught 
Of  food,  or  gold,  or  pictures.     Had 

she  sought, 
The  nurse,  a  livelier  home,  and  loved 

or  feared 
Too  much,  to  leave  him  ?     Or  some 

enemy, 
Fell      and  *  implacable,     this     ruin 

brought,  — 
This    thunder-stroke  ?      No    answer 

could  I  see, 
Nor  prop  whereon    to  rest  my  an- 
guished thought. 

LXXXII 

As  casts  away  a  drowning  man  his 

gold, 
I  cast  the  Artist  from  my  life,  and 

forth, 
A  Father  only,  wandered  :    south  or 

north 
I  knew  not,  save  the  heart  within  me 

hold 
Love's  faithful  needle,  ever  towards 

him  drawn, 
Felt  and  obeyed  without  the  conscious 

will : 
And  first,  by  nestling  town  and  pur- 
ple hill, 
To  Garda's  lake  I  swiftly  hastened  on. 

LXXXIII 

And  thence  a  new,  mysterious  im- 
pulse led 

My  steps  along  the  Adige,  day  by  day, 

To  seek  that  village  where  we  saw 
the  dead, — 

A  fantasy  wherein  some  madness  lay ; 

For  years  had  passed,  and  he  a  babe 
so  young 

That  each  impression  with  its  object 
fled: 

Not  so  with  mine,  —  my  roused  fore- 
bodings flung 

That  scene  to  light,  and  there  insanely 
clung. 

lxxxiv 

I  found  the  village,  but  its  people  knew 
No  tidings  :  wearily  awhile  I  trod 
Among  black  crosses  in  the  church- 
yard sod, 


THE   PICTURE 


221 


But  who  could  guess  the  boy's  ?  and 

why  pursue 
A  sickly  fancy  ?    In  that  peopled  vale 
Death  is  not  rare,  alas !  nor  burials  few, 
And  soon  the  grassy  coverlet  of  God 
Spreads  equal  green  above  their  ashes 

pale. 


'T  was  eve  :  upon  a  lonely  mound  I 

sank 
That  held  no  more  its  votive  immor- 
telles, 
And,  over-worn  and  half-despairing, 

drank 
The  vesper  pity  of  the  distant  bells, 
Till  sleep  or  trance  descended,  and 

my  brain 
Forgot  its  echoes  of  eternal  knells, 
Effaced  its  ceaseless  images  of  pain, 
And,  blank  and  helpless,  knew  repose 
again. 

LXXXVI 

I  dreamed, — or  was  it  dream?    My 

Angelo 
Called    somewhere    out    of    distant 

space  :  I  heard, 


Like  faint  but  clearest  music,  every 

word. 
"Come,  father,  come! "he  said;  "it 

shines  like  snow, 
My  house  of  marble :  I  've  a  speaking 

bird  : 
A  thousand  roses  in  my  garden  grow : 
My  fountains  fall  in  basins  dark  as 

wine  : 
Come  to  me,  father,  —  all  is  yours  and 

mine  !  " 

Lxxxvn 

And  then,  one  fleeting  moment,  blew 

aside 
The  hovering  mist  of  Sleep,  and  I 

could  trace 
The  phantom  beauty  of  his  joyous 

face: 
And,  whitely  glimmering,  o'er  him  I 

espied 
A  marble  porch  of  stern  Palladian 

grace,  — 
Then  faded  all.     The  rest  my  heart 

supplied  : 
Pandolfo's  palace  on  my  vision  broke : 
"I  come!"  I  cried;  and  with  the  cry 

awoke. 


BOOK  IV 


THE  PICTUKE 


As  when  a  traveller,  whose  journey 

lies 
In  some  still  valley,  slowly  wanders  on 
By     brook    and     meadow,     cottage, 

bower,  and  lawn.  — 
Familiar  sights,  that  charm  his  level 

eyes 
For  many  a  league,  until,  with  late 

surprise 
He  starts  to  find  those  gentle  regions 

gone, 
And     through    the    narrowing    dell, 

whose  crags  enclose 
His  path,  irresolutely,  sadly  goes: 

n 
For  what  may  wait  beyond,  he  cannot 

guess, 
A  garden  or  a  desert,  —  in  such  wise 


I  went,  in  ignorance  that  mocked  the 

guise 
Of  hope,  and  filled  me  with  obscure 

distress. 
Locked  in  a  pass  of  doubt,   whose 

cliffs  concealed 
The  coming  life,  the  temper  of  the 

skies, 
I  craved  the  certain  day,  that  soon 

should  rise 
Upon  a  fortunate  or  fatal  field ! 

in 

The  House  of  Life  hath  many  cham- 
bers.    He 

Who  deems  his  mansion  built,  a 
dreamer  vain, 

A  tottering  shell  inhabits,  and  shall  see 

The  ruthless  years  hurl  down  his 
masonry ; 


222 


THE   PICTURE  OF   ST.  JOHN 


While  they  who  plan  but  as   they 

slowly  gain, 
Where    that  which  was  gives    that 

which  is  to  be 
Its  form  and  symbols,  build  the  house 

divine,  — 
In  life  a  temple,  and  in  death  a  shrine. 


And  following  as  the  guiding  vision 
led, 

With  briefest  rest,  with  never-falter- 
ing feet, 

By  highways  white,  through  field  or 
chattering  street 

Or  windy  gorges  of  the  hills  I  sped, 

And  crossed  the  level  floors  of  silk  and 
wine, 

The  slow  canals,  and,  shrunken  in 
their  bed, 

The  sandy  rivers,  till  the  welcome  line 

Before  me  rose  of  Tuscan  Apennine. 


The  southern  slopes,  with  shout  and 
festal  song, 

Rejoiced  in  vintage :  as  I  wandered  by, 

Came  faun-like  figures,  purple  to  the 
thigh 

From  foaming  vats,  and  laughing 
women,  strong 

To  bear  their  Bacchic  loads  :  then,  to- 
wards the  town 

Through  blended  toil  and  revel  hasten- 
ing down, 

I  saw  the  terrace  —  saw,  and  checked 
a  cry,  — 

Whence  Clelia  flung  to  me  the  jasmine 
crown  ! 


Alas!    how  changed  from    him  that 

wreath  who  wore,  — 
The  youth  all  rapture,  hope  and  sense 

uncloyed, 
New-landed  on  the  world's  illlumined 

shore,  — 
Walked  now  the  man !    My  downward 

path  before 
There  sprang  no  arch  of  triumph  from 

the  void : 
No  censers  burned :  not  as  a  conqueror 
I  entered  Florence,  —  no  !  a  slave,  that 

fed 
On  one  last  fragment  of  the  feast  I 

spread. 


There  stretched  the  garden- wall :  the 

yellow  sun 
Above    it    burnished    every  cypress 

spire, 
Tipped  the   tall  laurel-clumps    with 

points  of  fire, 
And  smote  the  palace-marbles  till  they 

won 
The  golden  gleam  of  ages.  Yet,  above 
That  mellow  splendor  stood  the  beauty 

flown 
Of  midnights,  when  around  it  blew 

and  shone 
The  breeze  of  Passion  and  the  moon  of 

Love! 

VIII 

At  last  —  the  door!  With  trembling 
touch  I  tried 

The  latch :  it  shook :  the  rusty  bolts 
gave  way. 

As  in  a  dream  the  roses  I  espied. 

Heard  as  in  dreams  the  fountain's  lull- 
ing play. 

There  curled  the  dolphins  in  the  shin- 
ing shower 

And  rode  the  Triton  boys :  on  either 
side 

The  turf  was  diapered  with  many  a 
flower,  — 

And  darkling  drooped  our  green  be- 
trothal bower. 


Scarce  had  I  entered,  when  there  came 

a  sound 
Of  voices  from  the  pillared  portico,  — 
And  twofold  burst  a  cry,  as  Angelo, 
Across  the  paths,  with  wildly -joyous 

bound 
Sprang  to  my  bosom :  while,  as  one 

astound 
With  sense  of  some  unexpiated  wrong, 
The  nurse  entreated:  "Bid  thy  father 

go!" 
But  "Stay!"  he  cried:  "where  hast 

thou  been  so  long  ?  " 


"  Stay,  father!  thou  shalt  paint  me  as 

thou  wilt, 
Each  morning,  in  the  silent  northern 

hall ; 
But  when,  so  tired,  thou  seest  mine 

eyelids  fall, 


THE   PICTURE 


223 


Then  shall  I    take  my  sword  with 

golden  hilt, 
And  call  the  grooms,  and  bid  them 

saddle  straight 
For  us  the  two  white  horses  in  the 

stall  —  " 
Here  shrieked  the  nurse,  with  face  of 

evil  fate, 
"  Go,  Signor,  go  !  — ah,  God!  too  late 

—  too  late  1 " 

XI 

His  haste  dividing,  him  to  clasp  I  knelt 

'Twixt  porch  and  fountain,  blind  with 
tearful  joy 

As  on  my  breast  his  beating  heart  I 
felt, 

And  on  my  mouth  the  kisses  of  the  boy, 

Wherein  his  mother's  phantom  kisses 
poured 

A  stream  of  ancient  rapture,  love  re- 
stored, — 

When,  like  the  lightning  ere  the  stroke 
is  dealt, 

Before  me  flashed  the  old  Marchese's 
sword ! 

XII 

So  haggard,   sunken-eyed,  convulsed 

with  wrath 
That  paints  a  devil  on  the  face  of  age, 
He  glared,  that,  quick  to  shield  my 

child  from  scath,  — 
To  fly  the    menace    of  unreasoning 

rage,  — 
I  caught  him  in  my  cloak,  and  dashed 

apart 
The  tangled  roses  of  the  garden-path  : 
Pandolfo  —  hate  such  fatal  swiftness 

hath  — 
Leapt  in  advance,  and  thrust  to  pierce 

my  heart ! 

xin 

I  saw  the  flame-like  sparkle  of  the 
blade  : 

Heard,  sharp  and  shrill,  the  nurse's 
fearful  cry  : 

Warm  blood  gushed  o'er  my  hands:  a 
fluttering  sigh 

Came  from  the  childish  lips,  that 
feebly  made 

These  words,  as  prompted  by  the  dark- 
ening eye, 

"Good-night,*  my  father!"  And  I 
knew  not  why 


My  boy  should  sleep,  so  suddenly  and 

so  well,  — 
But  trembling  seized  me  :    clasping 

him,  I  fell. 


Nor  loosed  my  hold,  although  I  dimly 

knew 
Pandolfo' s  hand  let  fall  the  blade  ac- 
curst, 
And  he,   his  race's  hoary  murderer, 

burst 
The  awful  stillness  that  around  us 

grew, 
With  miserable  groans  :  his  prostrate 

head 
Touched  mine,  as  helpless,   o'er  the 

fading  dead,  — 
His  hands  met    mine,   and  both    as 

gently  nursed 
The  limbs,    and  strove    to  stay  the 

warmth  that  fled. 


His  Past,  my  Future,  in  the  body 
met,  — 

His  wrongs,  my  hopes,  —  the  selfsame 
fatal  blow 

Dashed  into  darkness  :  blood  Lethean 
wet 

My  blighted  summer,  his  autumnal 
snow, 

And  all  of  Life  did  either  life  forget, 

Except  the  piteous  death  between  us; 
so, 

Together  pressed,  involved  in  half -em- 
brace, 

We  hung  above  the  cold,  angelic  face. 

xvi 

"Her  father,  why  should  Heaven  di- 
rect thy  hand 

Against  her  child,  thy  blood,  chastis- 
ing thee  ?  " 

"I  loved  the  boy"  —  "But  couldst 
not  pardon  me, 

His  father?"  "Nay,  but  thou  thyself 
hadst  banned 

Beyond  forgiveness  !  "  "  Even  at  his 
demand!" 

"  Ah,  no !  for  his  sweet  sake  might  all 
things  be, 

Except  to  lose  him."  "He  is  lost,  — 
and  we 

(Thou,  too,  old  man  !)  are  childless  in 
the  land  ! " 


224 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


XVII 

Thus  brokenly,  scarce  knowing  what 

we  said, 
We  clung  like  drowning  men  beneath 

the  wave, 
That  nor  can  hurt  each  other,  nor  can 

save, 
But  breast  to  breast  with  iron  arms 

are  wed 
Till  Death  so  leaves  them.      Us  the 

servants  led  — 
Pale,    awe-struck    helpers  —  through 

the  palace-door 
And  glimmering  hall§,  to  lay  on  Clelia's 

bed 
The  broken  lily  we  together  bore. 

XVIII 

God's  thunder-stroke  his  haughty  heart 

had  bowed: 
It  bled  with  mine  among  the  common 

dust 
Where  Rank  puts  on  the  sackcloth  of 

the  crowd, 
And    sits    in  equal    woe:    his    guilt 

avowed, 
And  mine,  there  came  a  sad,  remorse- 
ful trust, 
And     while     the    double    midnight 

gathered  there 
From  sable  hangings  and  the  starless 

air, 
We  held  each  other's  hands,  and  wept 

aloud. 


And  he  confessed,  how,  after  weary 

search 
And  many  a  vain  device  employed,  he 

found 
By   chance    in   Zara,    on    Dalmatian 

ground, 
As  altar-piece  within  a  votive  church 
Some  shipwrecked  Plutus  built,  —  the 

Mother  mild 
In  whose  foreboding  face  my  Clelia 

smiled ; 
And    thence,    by    slow    degrees,    to 

Como's  side 
Had  followed  home  the  trail  I  thought 

to  hide. 

xx 

And  there  had  seized  me,  but  the  boy 

displayed 
Patrician  beauty,  and  the  failing  line, 


Now  trembling  o'er  extinction,  might 

evade 
Its  fate  in   him.     This  changed  the 

first  design, 
And  what  the  sordid  nurse  for  gold 

betrayed 
Or  those  Art-hucksters  chattered,  easy 

made 
The  rape,  whose  issue  should,  with 

even  blow, 
Revenge  and  compensate  :  but  now, 

—  ah,  woe ! 


The  issue  had  been  reached :  too  dark 

and  drear, 
Too    tragic,    pitiful,    and    heart -for- 
lorn, 
Could    any   heart   contain  it,    to   be 

borne,  — 
And  mine  refused,  rebelled.     Behind 

his  bier 
No  meek-eyed  Resignation  walked,  or 

Grief 
That  catches  sunshine  in  each  falling 

tear 
To  build  her  pious  rainbow :  but  with 

scorn 
I  thrust  aside  the  truths  that  bring 

relief. 

XXII 

I  spurned,  though  kindly, — for  the 
old  man's  frame 

Stumbled  in  Death's  advancing  twi- 
light, —  all 

His  offers  :  gold  —  the  proud  Pan- 
dolf an  hall  — 

Place,  that  should  goad  the  lagging 
feet  of  Fame  — 

And  from  his  sombre  palace,  shudder- 
ing still, 

Cold  with  remembered  horror,  took 
my  name, 

My  own,  restored ;  and  climbed  the 
northern  hill 

As  one  who  lives,  though  dead  his 
living  will. 

XXIII 

Some  habit,  working  in  my  passive 

feet, 
Its  guidance  gave :  the  mornings  came 

and  went: 
Around  me  spread  the  fields,  or  closed 

the  street, 


THE   PICTURE 


225 


And  often,  Night's  expanded  firma- 
ment 

Opened  above  the  lesser  dome  of  Day, 

And  wild,  tumultuous  tongues  of 
darkness  sent 

To  vex  my  path,  —  till,  in  our  old 
retreat, 

I  ceased  to  hold  my  reckless  heart  at 
bay! 

XXIV 

Some  natures  are  there,  fashioned  ere 
their  birth 

For  sun,  and  spring-time,  and  the  bliss 
of  earth; 

Who  only  sing,  achieve,  and  triumph, 
when 

The  Hours  caress,  and  each  bright  cir- 
cumstance 

Leaps  to  its  place,  as  in  a  starry 
dance, 

To  shape  their  story.  These  the  fortu- 
nate men, 

When  Fate  consents,  whose  lives  are 
ever  young, 

And  shine  around  whate'er  they 
wrought  or  sung ! 


Akin  to  these  am  I,  —  or  deemed  it  so, 

And  thus  beyond  my  present  wreck 
beheld 

No  far-off  rescue.  All  my  mind,  im- 
pelled 

By  some  blind  wrath  that  would  re- 
sent the  blow, 

Though  impotent,  caught  action  from 
despair, 

And  reached,  and  groped,  —  as  when 
a  man  lets  go 

A  jewel  in  the  dark,  and  seeks  it  where 

The  furzes  prick  him  and  the  brambles 
tear. 

XXVI 

The  clash  of  inconsistent  qualities 
No  labor  stayed,  or  beauteous  passion 

smoothed. 
But  each  let  loose,  and  grasping,  by 

degrees, 
Stole  sway,  made  chaos.     Turbulent, 

unsoothed 
By  either's  rule,  —  since  order  failed 

therein, 
And  hope,   the  tidal  star  of  restless 

seas,  — 


I  turned  from  every  height,  once  fair 
to  win, 

And  sinned  'gainst  Art  the  one  un- 
pardoned sin ! 

XXVII 

For  thus  I  reasoned :  what  avail  my 
gifts, 

Which  but  attract,  provoke  the  spoil- 
ing Fate  ?  — 

Nor  for  themselves  their  destinies 
create, 

But  task  my  life  ;  and  then  the  thun- 
der rifts 

Their  laid  foundations !  Why  of  finer 
nerve 

The  members  doomed  to  bear  more 
cruel  weight  ? 

Or  daintier  senses,  if  they  only  serve 

To  double  pangs,  already  doubly 
great  ? 

XXVIII 

Lo !  yonder  hind,  on  whom  doth  Life 
impose 

So  slight  a  burden,  finds  his  path  pre- 
pared ; 

Unthinking  fares  as  all  his  fathers 
fared, 

And  cheap-won  joys  and  soon-subsid- 
ing woes 

Nor  cleave  his  heart  too  deep,  nor 
lift  too  high. 

Peaceful  as  dew -mist  from  an  evening 
sky 

The  years  descend,  until  they  bid  him 
close 

Upon  an  easy  world  a  quiet  eye  ! 

XXIX 

He  sees  the  shell  of  Earth  —  no  more : 

yet  more 
Were  useless,  —  attributes  of  thankful 

toil; 
The  olive  orchards,  dark  with  ripen- 
ing oil  ; 
The    misty    grapes,     the     harvests, 

tawny -hoar ; 
The  glossy  melons,  swelling  from  the 

vine  ; 
The  breezy  lake,  alive  with  darting 

spoil ; 
And  dances  woo  from  yonder  purple 

shore, 
And  yonder  Alps  but  cool  his  summer 

wine  ! 


226 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


XXX 

He  lives  the  common  life  of  Earth : 
she  grants 

Result  to  instinct,  food  to  appetite  : 

With  no  repressed  desire  his  bosom 
pants, 

Nor  that  self-torturing,  questioning 
inward  sight 

Vexes  his  light,  unconscious  con- 
sciousness. 

He  loves,  and  multiplies  his  life,  — no 
less 

His  virile  pride  and  fatherly  delight ; 

And  all  that  smites  me,  visits  him  to 
bless. 

XXXI 

If  this  the  law,  that  narrower  powers 

enjoy 
Their  use,  denied  the  greater,  —  nay, 

are  nursed 
And  helped,  while  these  their  energies 

destroy 
In   baffled    aspirations,    crossed    and 

cursed 
By   what  with  brightening   promise 

lured  them  on,  — 
Then  life  is  false,   its  purposes  re- 
versed, 
Its  luck  for  those  who  leave  its  veils 

undrawn, 
And  Art  the  mocking  glory  of  its 

dawn ! 

XXXII 

Not  calmly,  as  my  memory  now  re- 
calls 

The  crisis,  —  fierce,  vehemently,  I 
tracked 

The  fatal  truth  through  every  potent 
fact 

Of  being  :  now  in  fancied  carnivals 

Of  sense  abiding,  now  with  gloomy 
face 

Fronting  the  deeper  question  that  ap- 
palls, 

Of  '  *  Wherefore  Life  ?  and  what  this 
brawling  race, 

Peopling  a  mote  of  dust  in  endless 
space  ? " 

xxxin 

"O  fools!  "  I  cried,  "O  fools,  a  thou- 
sand-fold 

Tormented  with  your  folly,  seeking 
good 


Where  Good  is  not,  nor  Evil !  — words 
that  hold 

Your  natures  captive,  making  ye  the 
food 

And  spoil  of  them  that  dare,  with 
vision  bold, 

See  Nothingness  !  —  slaves  of  trans- 
mitted fear, 

Of  Power  imagined,  never  understood, 

The  Demon  rules  you  still  that  set  you 
here ! " 

xxxrv 

The  curse  I  would  have  broken  bound 

me  still. 
As  flowery  chains  aforetime,  fetters 

now 
Of  tyrant  Art  subdued  my  wandering 

will, 
And  made  its  youthful,  glad,  sponta- 
neous vow 
An  iron  law,  whence  there  was  no 

escape. 
No  rest,  though  hopeless,  would  my 

brain  allow, 
But  drew  the  pictures  of  its  haunting 

ill, 
And  gave  its  reckless  fancies  hue  and 

shape. 

XXXV 

So,  after  many  days,  the  cobwebbed 

door 
Gave  sullen    entrance :    naught  was 

there  displaced; 
And  first  I  turned,  with  pangs  and 

shuddering  haste, 
My  young  St.  John,  —  I  would  not 

see  it  more. 
Then  snatched  an  empty  canvas  from 

the  floor 
And  drew  a  devil :  therein  did  I  taste 
Fierce  joys  of  liberty,   for  what    I 

would 
I  would,  —  Art  was  itself  a  Devilhood ! 

xxxvi 

This  guilty  joy,    the  holiest  to  de- 


To  use  the  cunning,  born  of  pious  toil, 
The  purest  features  of  my  dreams  to 

soil, 
And    drag    in    ribaldry  the    pencil's 

grace,  — 
Grew    by    indulgence.      Forms    and 

groups  unclean- 


THE   PICTURE 


227 


Or  mocking,  faster  than  my  hand 
could  trace 

Their  vivid,  branding  features,  thrust 
a  screen 

My  restless  woe  and  dead  desire  be- 
tween. 

XXXVII 

Sometimes,  perchance,  a  grim,  sarcas- 
tic freak 

My  pencil  guided,  and  I  stiffly  drew 

Byzantine  saints,  of  flat,  insipid 
cheek 

And  monstrous  eye ;  or  some  Madonna 
meek, 

With  dwarfish  mouth,  like  those  of 
Cimabue  ; 

Or  martyr-figures,  less  of  flesh  than 
bone, 

Lean  hands,  and  lips  forever  making 
moan,  — 

A  travesty  of  woe,  distorted,  weak. 

XXXVIII 

Or,  higher  ranging,  touched  the  field 
that  charms 

Monastic  painters,  who,  in  vision  warm 

The  Mystery  grasp,  and  wondrous 
frescoes  form 

"Where  God  the  Father,  with  wide- 
spreading  arms, 

Rides  on  the  whirlwind  which  His 
breath  has  made, 

Or  sows  His  j  udgments,  Earth  in  dark- 
ness laid 

Beneath  Him,  — works  which  only  not 
blaspheme, 

Because  the  faith  that  wrought  them 
was  supreme. 

xxxix 

Thus  habit  grew,  imagination  stalked 

In  shameless  hardihood  from  things 
profane 

To  sacred :  nothing  hindered,  awed,  or 
baulked 

The  appetite  diseased,  and  such  a 
plan 

I  sketched,  as  never  since  the  world 
began  — 

So  strange  and  mad  —  engendered  any 
brain. 

Once  entertained,  the  lovely-loath- 
some guest 

Clung  to  my  fancy  and  my  hand  pos- 
sessed. 


Not  broad  the  canvas,  but  the  shapes 

it  showed, 
With  utmost  art  defined,  might  almost 

seem 
To  grow  and  spread,  dilating  with  the 

theme. 
Filling  the  space,  a  lurid  ocean  glowed 
In  endless  billows,  tipped  with  foam  of 

fire, 
Shoreless :  but  far  more  dreadful  than 

a  dream 
Of  Hell,  the  shapes  which  in  that  sea 

abode, 
With  sting  and  fang,  and  scaly  coil 

and  spire ! 


One  with  a  lizard's  sinuous  motion 

slipped 
Forth  from  the  dun  recesses  of  the 

wave, 
Man-eyed  and  browed,  but  tusked  and 

lipped 
Like    river-horse:    its    claws  another 

drave 
Within  a  ghastly  head,   whose  dim 

eyes  gave 
Slow  tears  of  blood :  and  with  a  burn- 
ing tongue 
In    brazen  jaws    out-thrust,   another 

stripped 
From  floating  bones    the  flesh    that 

round  them  clung  ! 


And  inthemidst,  suspended  from  above 

Just  o'er  the  blazing  foam,  in  light  in- 
tense, 

A  naked  youth  —  a  form  of  strength 
and  love 

And  beauty,  perfect  as  the  artist's  sense 

Dreams  of  a  god  ;  and  every  glorious 
limb 

Burned  in  a  glow  that  made  those  bil- 
lows dim. 

A  weird  and  awful  brilliance,  coming 
whence 

]So  eye  might  fathom,  dashed  alone  on 
him! 

XLIII 

Let  down  from  Somewhere  by  a  mighty 
chain 

Linked  round  his  middle,  lightly,  gra- 
ciously 


228 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


He  swung,  and  all  his  body  seemed  to 

be 
Compact  of  molten  metal,  such  a  stain 
Of  angry  scarlet  streamed  and  shot 

around : 
The  face  convulsed,  yet  whether  so 

with  pain 
Or  awful  joy,  no  gazers  might  agree, 
And  damp  the  crispy  gold  his  brows 

that  crowned. 

XLIV 

And,  as  he  swung,  all  hybrid  monsters 

near, 
Dark  dragon-leech,  huge  vermin  hu- 
man-faced, 
Their  green  eyes  turned  on  him  with 

hideous  leer, 
Or  stretched  abhorrent  tentacles,   to 

taste 
His  falling  ripeness.      Through  the 

picture  spread 
A  sense  of  tumult,  hinting  to  the  ear 
The  snap  and  crackle  of  those  waters 

red, 
And  hiss,  and  howl,  and  bestial  noises 

dread. 

XLV 

Unweariedly  I  wrought,  — each  grim 
detail 

As  patient-perfect,  as  from  Denner's 
brush, 

Of  hair,  or  mouldy  hide,  or  pliant  mail, 

Or  limbs,  slow-parting,  as  the  grinders 
crush 

Their  quivering  fibres :  good  the  work- 
manship, 

Yet  something  unimagined  seemed  to 
fail,  — 

A  crowning  Horror,  in  whose  iron  grip 

The  heart  should  stifle,  bloodless  be 
the  lip. 


This  to  invent,  with  hot,  unresting 

mind 
I  labored  :  early  sat  and  late,  possessed 
With  evil  images,  with  wicked  zest 
To  wreak  my  mood,  though  it  might 

curse  my  kind, 
On  Evil's  purest  type,  and  horridest; 
And  never  young  ambition  heretofore 
In  noble  service  so  itself  outwore. 
What  thus  we  seek,  or  soon  or  late  we 

find. 


XL  VII 

One  morn  of  winter,  when  unmelted 

frost, 
Beneath  a  low -hung  vault  of  moveless 

cloud, 
Silvered  the  world,   even  while  my 

head  was  bowed 
In  half -despair,  my  brain  the  Horror 

crossed, 
Unheralded  ;  and  never  human  will 
Achieved      such     fearful     triumph ! 

Never  came 
The  form  of  that  which  language  can- 
not name, 
So  armed  the  life  of  souls  to  crush  and 

kill! 


And  this  be  never  unto  men  revealed, 
To  curse  by  mere  existence!      Know- 
ledge taints, 
Drawn  from  such  crypts,  the  whitest 

robes  of  saints ; 
Though  faith  be  firm,   and  warrior- 
virtue  steeled 
Against  assault,  the  Possible  breaks  in 
Their  borders,  and  the  soul  that  can- 
not yield 
Must  needs  receive  the  images  it  paints, 
And  shudder,  sinless,  in  the  air  of  Sin ! 

XLIX 

My  blood    runs    chill,   remembering 

now  the  laugh 
Wherewith,  enlightened,  I  the  pencil 

seized, — 
Half  deadly-smitten,  fascinated  half, 
Yet  sworn  to  do  the  dreadful  thing  I 

pleased  ! 
All  things  upheld  my  mood  with  evil 

guise  : 
The  palette-colors,  to  my  sense  dis- 
eased, 
Winked  wickedly,  like  devils'  slimy 

eyes, 
And  darkness  closed  me    from    the 

drooping  skies ! 


As  when  a  harp-string  in  a  silent  room 

At  midnight  snaps,  with  weird,  melo- 
dious twang, 

So  suddenly,  through  inner,  outer 
gloom 

A  sweet,  sharp  sound,  vibrating 
slowly,  rang 


THE   PICTURE 

music  ;  while 


And  sank  to  huminin 
a  stream 

Of  gathering  odor  followed,  as  in 
dream 

"We  braid  the  bliss  of  music  and  per- 
fume, — 

And  pierced,  I  sat,  with  some  divinest 
pang. 

LI 

And,   as  from  sound  and  fragrance 

born,  a  glow 
All  rosy-golden,  fair  as  Alpine  snow 
At  sunset,  grew,  —  mist-like  at  first, 

and  dim, 
But  brightening,  folding  inwards,  fold 

on  fold, 
Until  my  ravished  vision  could  behold 
Complete,  each  line  of  sunny-shining 

limb 
And  sainted  head,  soft-posed  as  I  had 

drawn 
My    boy  —  my  Angelo  —  my    young 

St.  John  ! 

LII 

O  beauteous  ghost !  O  sacred  loveli- 
ness! 

Unworthy  I  to  look  upon  thy  face, 

Unworthy  thy  transfigured  form  to 
trace, 

That  stood,  expectant,  waiting  but  to 
bless 

By  miracle,  where  I  intended  crime  ! 

The  folded  scroll,  the  shadowy  cross 
of  reed 

He  bore,  —  St.  John,  but  not  of  mortal 
seed  : 

So  God  beheld  him,  in  that  early  time ! 

LIII 

Dew  came  to  burning  eyes  :   a  hea- 
venly rain, 
A    balmy    deluge,   bathed    my    arid 

heart, 
And  washed  that  hateful  fabric  of  the 

brain 
To  rot,  a  ruin,  in  some  Hell  of  Art. 
A    sweet,     unquestioning,     obedient 

mood 
Made  swift  revulsion  from  the  broken 

strain 
Of  my  revolt ;  and  still  the  Phantom 

wooed, 
As  bright,  and  wonderful,  and  mute, 

it  stood. 


229 


trem- 


Yet  I,  through  all  dissolving 

bling  deeps 
Of    consciousness,    his    angel-errand 

knew. 
The  guilty  picture  fell,  and  forth  I  drew 
My  dim  St.  John  from  out  the  dusty 

heaps, 
And  cleansed  it  first,,  and  kissed  in 

reverence 
The  shadowy  lips,  —  fresh  colors  took, 

and  true, 
And  painted,  while  on  each  awakened 

sense 
The  awful  beauty  of  the  Phantom 

grew. 

LV 

All  hoarded  craft,  all  purposes  and 

powers 
Together      worked :     the      scattered 

gleams  of  thought 
As  through  a  glass  my  heart  together 

brought 
To  light  my  hand  :  the  chariots  of  the 

Hours 
For    me  were  stayed  :    I  knew  not 

Earth  nor  Time, 
But  painted  nimbly  in  a  trance  sub- 
lime, 
And  tint  by  tint  my  charmed  pencil 

caught, 
And  line  byline,  the  loveliness  it  sought. 


Mine  eyes  were  purged  from  film  :  I 

saw  and  fixed 
The  subtle  secrets,  not  with  old  despair 
But  with  undoubting  faith  my  colors 

mixed, 
And  with  unfaltering  hand  the  breeze- 
blown  hair, 
The  dark,  unfathomed  eyes,  the  lips 

of  youth, 
The  dainty,  fleeting  grace  that  stands 

betwixt 
The  babe  and  child,  in  members  pure 

and  bare, 
Portrayed,  with  joy  that  owned  my 

pencil's  truth. 

LVII 

And  he,  my  heavenly  model !  how  he 

shone, 
Unwearied,  silent,  —  drawn,  a  golden 

form, 


230 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.   JOHN 


Against  the  background  of  a  sky  of 
storm, 

On  Amnion's  desert  hills  !  The  land- 
scape lone 

Through  all  its  savage  slopes  and 
gorges  smiled, 

Him  to  enframe,  the  God -selected 
child, 

And  o'er  the  shadowy  distance  fell  a 
gleam 

That  touched  with  promised  peace  its 
barren  dream. 

LYIII 

At  last,  the  saffron  clearness  of  the 

west, 
From  under  clouds,  shot  forth  elegiac 

ray 
That  sang  the  burial  of  the  wondrous 

day: 
And    sad,   mysterious  music    in  my 

breast, 
As  at  the  coming,  now  the  close  ex- 
pressed. 
Ah,   God  !     I  dared  not  watch  him 

float  away, 
But,  seized  and  shaken  by  the  fading 

spell, 
And  covering  up  my  face,  exhausted 

fell. 

LTX 

There,    when  my  beating   heart    no 

longer  shook 
The  sense  that  listened,  though  that 

music  died, 
A  solemn  Presence  lingered  at  my 

side  ; 
And  drop  by  drop,  as  forms  an  infant 

brook 
Within  a  woodland  hollow,  soft,  un- 
heard, 
And  out  of  nothing  braids  its  slender 

tide, 
The  sense  of  speech  the  living  silence 

stirred 
And  wordless  sound  became  melodious 

word  ! 


"O  weak  of  will !"  (so  spake  what 

seemed  a  voice) 
"And  slave  of  sense,  that,  hovering 

in  extremes, 
Dost   oversoar,    and    undermine  thy 

dreams, 


Behold  the  lowest,  highest !  Make  thy 
choice,  — 

Lord  of  the  vile  or  servant  of  the 
pure : 

Be  free,  range  all  that  is,  if  better 
seems 

Freedom  to  smite  thyself,  than  to  en- 
dure 

The  pain  that  worketh  thine  immortal 
cure  ! 

LXI 

"Lo!  never  any  living  brain  knew 
peace, 

That  saw  not,  rooted  in  the  scheme 
of  things, 

Assailing  and  protecting  Evil !     Cease 

To  beat  this  steadfast  law  with  bleed- 
ing wings, 

For  know,  that  never  any  living 
brain, 

Which  rested  not  within  its  ordered 
plane, 

Restrung  the  harp  of  life  with  sweeter 
strings, 

Or  made  new  melodies,  except  of  pain ! 

LXII 

"Where  wast  thou,  when  the  world's 

foundations  first 
Were  laid  ?      Didst  thou   the   azure 

tent  unfold  ? 
Or  bid  the  young  May -morning's  car 

of  gold 
Herald  the  seasons  ?     Wouldst  thou 

see  reversed 
The  sacred  order  ?    Why,  if  life  be 

cursed, 
Add  to  its  curses  thy  rebellion  bold  ? 
Or  has  thy  finer  wisdom  only  yearned 
For  thankless   gifts  and  recompense 

unearned  ? 

LXIII 

"Come,  thou  hast  questioned  God:  I 
question  thee. 

And  truly  thou  art  smitten,  —  yet  re- 
press 

Thine  old  impatience  :  calm  the  eyes 
that  see 

How  blows  give  strength,  and  sharpest 
sorrows  bless. 

Free  art  thou :  is  thy  liberty  so 
fair 

To  hide  the  ghost  of  vanished  happi- 
ness, 


THE   PICTURE 


231 


And  sleep'st  thou  sweeter  under  skies, 

so  bare 
These  thunder-strokes  were  welcome 

to  its  air  ? 

LXIV 

1 '  Whv  is  thy  life  so  sorely  smitten  ? 

Wait, 
And  thou  shalt  learn!     Dead  stones 

thy  teachers  were : 
Through  years  of  toil  thy  hand  did 

minister 
To  joyous  Art  :  thou  wast  content  with 

Fate. 
Take  now  thy  ruined  passion,  fix  its 

date, 
Peruse  its  growth,  and,  if  thou  canst 

replan 
The  blended  facts  of  Life  that  made 

thee  man ;  — 
Could  aught  be  spared,  or  changed 

for  other  state  ? 

LXV 

"  Not  less  thy  breathing  bliss   than 

yonder  hind 
Thou  enviest,  but  more  :  therein  it  lies, 
That  each  experience  brings  a  twin 

surprise, 
As  mirrored  in  the  glad,  creative  mind, 
And  in  the  beating  heart.     Behold  ! 

he  bows 
To  adverse  circumstance,   to  change 

and  death  ; 
But  thou  wouldst  place  thy  fortune 

his  beneath, 
Shaming    the   double    glory    on    thy 

brows  ! 

LXVI 

"His  pangs  outworn,  perchance  some 
feeling  lives 

For  those  of  others :  thine  the  lordly 
power 

Transmuting  all  that  loss  or  suffering 
gives 

To  Beauty !  Even  thy  most  despair- 
ing hour  x 

Some  darker  grace  informs,  and  like 
a  bee 

Thine  Art  sits  hoarding  in  thy  Pas- 
sion's flower  : 

So  vast  thy  need,  no  phase  thine  eye 
can  see 

Of  Earth  or  Life,  that  not  enriches 
thee ! 


LXVII 

"Such  is  the  Artist,  — drawing  pre- 
cious use 

From  every  fate,  and  so  by  laws  divine 

Encompassed,  that  in  glad  obedience 
shine 

His  works  the  fairer :  his  the  flag  of 
truce 

Between  the  warring  worlds  of  soul 
and  sense : 

By  neither  mastered,  holding  both 
apart, 

Or  blending  in  a  newer  excellence, 

He  weds  the  haughty  brain  and 
yearning  heart. 

LXVIII 

"Beneath       tempestuous,      shifting 

movement  laid, 
The  base  of  steadfast  Order  he  beholds, 
And  from  the  central  vortex,  unafraid, 
Marks  how  all  action  evermore  unfolds 
Forth  from  a  point  of  absolute  repose, 
Which  hints  of  God ;   and  how,  in 

gleams  betrayed, 
The    Perfect    even    in    imperfection 

shows,  — 
And  Earth  a  bud,  but  breathing  of 

the  rose  !  " 

LXIX 

Even  as  the  last  stroke  of  a  Sabbath 
bell, 

Heard  in  the  Sabbath  silence  of  a  dell, 

Sounds  on  and  on,  with  fainter,  thin- 
ner note, 

Distincter  ever,  till  its  dying  swell 

Draws  after  it  the  listener's  ear,  to 
float 

Farther  and  farther  into  skies  re- 
mote, — 

So,  when  what  seemed  a  voice  had 
ceased,  the  strain 

Drew  after  it  the  waiting,  listening 
brain. 

LXX 

And,  following  far,  my  senses  on  the 
track 

Slid  into  darkness.    Dead  to  life,  I  lay 

Plunged  in  oblivious  slumber,  still 
and  black, 

All  through  the  night  and  deep  into 
the  day : 

Yet  was  it  sleep,  not  trance,  —  restor- 
ing Sleep, 


232 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


That  from  the  restless  soul  its  house 

of  clay 
Protects  ,  and  when  I  woke,  her  dew 

so  deep 
Had    drenched,   the  wondrous    Past 

was  washed  away. 

LXXI 

But  there,  before  me,  its  recorded  gift 

Flashed  from  the  easel,  so  divinely 
bright 

It  shamed  the  morning :  then,  return- 
ing swift, 

The  wave  of  Memory  rolled,  and  pure 
delight 

Filled  mine  awakening  spirit,  and  I 
wept 

With  contrite  heart,  redeemed,  en- 
franchised quite: 

My  sick  revolt  was  healed,  —  the 
Demon  slept, 

And  God  was  good,  and  Earth  her 
promise  kept. 

LXXII 

I  wandered  forth ;  and  lo !  the  halcyon 

world 
Of  sleeping  wave,  and  velvet-folded 

hill, 
And  stainless  air  and  sunshine,  lay  so 

still ! 
No  mote  of  vapor  on  the  mountains 

curled  ; 
But  lucid,  gem-like,  blissful,  as  if  sin 
Or  more  than  gentlest  grief  had  never 

been, 
Each  lovely  thing,  of  tint  that  shone 

impearled, 
As  dwelt  some  dim  beatitude  therein ! 

LXXIII 

There,  as  I  stood,  the  contadini  came 
With  anxious,  kindly  faces,  seeking 

me  ; 
And  caught  my  hands,  and  called  me 

by  my  name, 
As  one  from  danger  snatched  might 

welcomed  be. 
Such  had  they  feared,   their  gentle 

greeting  told,  — 
Seeing  the  cottage  shut,  the  chimney 

free 
Of  that  blue  household  breath,  whose 

rings,  unrolled, 
The  sign  of  home,  the  life  of  land- 
scape, hold. 


LXXIV 

So  God's  benignant    hand  directing 

wrought, 
And  Man  and  Nature  took  me  back  to 

life. 
My  cry   was  hushed:   the  forms  of 

child  and  wife 
Smiled  from  a  solemn,  moonlit  land 

of  thought, 
A  realm  of  peaceful  sadness.     Sad, 

yet  strong, 
My  soul  stood  up,  threw  off  its  robes 

of  strife, 
And  quired  anew  the  world-old  human 

song,  — 
Accepting    patience    and    forgetting 

wrong ! 

LXXV 

Erelong,  my  living  joy  in  Art  re- 
turned, 

But  reverently  felt,  and  purified 

By  recognition  of  the  bounty  spurned, 

And  meek  acceptance  in  the  place  of 
pride. 

Yet  nevermore  should  brush  of  mine 
be  drawn 

O'er  the  unfinished  picture  of  St. 
John  : 

What  from  the  lovely  miracle  I 
learned, 

The  lines  of  colder  toil  should  never 
hide. 

LXXVI 

Though  incomplete,  it  gave  the  pro- 
phecy 

Of  far-off  power,  whereto  my  patient 
mind 

Must  set  its  purpose,  —  saying  unto 
me : 

"Make  sure  the  gift,  the  fleeting  for- 
tune bind,  — 

What  once  a  moment  was,  may  ever 
be!" 

And  when,  in  time,  this  hope  securer 
grew, 

Unto  the  picture,  whence  my  truth  I 
drew, 

A  sacred  dedication  I  assigned. 

LXXVTI 

Pandolfo  dead,  the  body  of  my  child 
Upon  his  mother's  lonely  breast  I  laid, 
A  late  return;   and  o'er  their  ashes 
made 


THE    PICTURE 


233 


A  chapel,  in  the  green  Bohemian  wild, 
For  weary  toil,    pure   thought,    and 

silent  prayer.  — 
A  simple  shrine,  of  all  adornment  bare, 
Save  o'er  the  altar,  where,  completed 

now, 
St.  John  looks  down,    with  Heaven 

upon  his  brow  ! 

LXXVIII 

The  Past  accepts  no  sacrifice :  its  gates 

Alike  atonement  and  revenge  out- 
bar. 

We  take  its  color,  yet  our  spirits  are 

Thrust  forward  by  a  power  which 
antedates 

Their  own  :  the  hand  of  Art  out- 
reaches  Fate's, 

And  lifts  the  bright,  unrisen,  re- 
fracted star 

Above  our  dark  horizon,  showing 
thus 

A  future  to  the  faith  that  fades  in 
us. 

LXXIX 

Not  with  that  vanity  of  shallow  minds 
Which  apes  the  speech,  and  shames 

the  noble  truth 
Of  them  whose  pride  is  knowledge,  — 

nor  of  Youth 
The  dazzling,  dear  mirage,  that  never 

finds 
Itself  o'ertaken,  —  but  with  trust  in 

fame, 
As  knowing  fame,  and  owning  now 

the  pure 
And     humble     will    which     makes 

achievement  sure, 
I,  Egon,  here  the  Artist's  title  claim ! 

LXXX 

The  forms  of  Earth,  the  masks  of 
Life,  I  see, 

Yet  see  wherein  they  fail :  with  eager 
eyes 

I  hunt  the  wandering  gleams  of  har- 
mony, 

The  rarer  apparitions  which  surprise 

With  hints  of  Beauty,  fixing  these 
alone 

In  wedded  grace  of  form  and  tint  and 
tone, 

That  so  the  thing,  transfigured,  shall 
arise 

Beyond  itself,  and  truly  live  in  me. 


LXXXI 

And  I  shall  paint,  discerning  where 
the  line 

Wavers  between  the  Human  and  Di- 
vine, — 

Nor  to  the  Real  in  servile  bondage 
bound, 

Nor  scorning  it :  nor  with  supernal 
themes 

Feeding  the  moods  of  o'er-aspiring 
dreams, 

(For  mortal  triumph  is  a  god  un- 
crowned,)— 

But  by  Proportion  ruled,  and  by  Re- 
pose, 

And  by  the  Soul  supreme  whence 
they  arose. 

Lxxxn 

Not  clamoring  for  over-human  bliss, 
Yet    now  no    more    unhappy,  — not 

elate 
As  one  exalted  o'er  the  level  state 
Of  these  ungifted  lives,  yet  strong  in 

this, 
That  I  the  sharpest  stab  and  sweetest 

kiss 
Have  tasted,   suffered,  —  I  can  stand 

and  wait, 
Serene  in    knowledge,   in    obedience 

free, 
The  only  master  of  my  destiny ! 

Lxxxni 

And  thus  as  in  a  clear,  revealing  noon 

I  live.  So  comes,  sometimes,  a  moun- 
tain day  : 

A  vague,  uncertain,  misty  morn,  and 
soon 

Sharp-smiting  sun,  and  winds'  and 
lightning's  play,  — 

A  drear  confusion,  by  the  final  crash 

Dispersed,  and  ere  meridian  blown 
away  ; 

And  all  the  peaks  shine  bare,  the  wa- 
ters flash, 

And  Earth  lies  open  to  the  golden  ray ! 

LXXXIV 

Lonely,  perchance,  but  as  these  dark- 
browed  hills 

Are  lonely,  belted  round  with  broader 
spheres 

Of  bluer  world,  my  life  its  peace  fulfils 

In  poise  of  soul :  the  long,  laborious 
years 


234 


THE   PICTURE   OF   ST.  JOHN 


Await  me:    closed  my  holy  task,   I 

go 
To  reaccept,  beyond  the  Alpine  snow, 
The  gage  of  glorious  battle  with  my 

peers,  — 
Not  each  of  each,  but  of  false  art,  the 

foe. 

LXXXV 

Once  more,  O  lovely,  piteous,  shaping 
Past, 

I  kiss  thy  lips  :  now  let  thy  face  be 
hid, 

And  this  green  turf  above  thy  coffin- 
lid 

Be  turned  to  violets !  The  forests 
cast 

Their  shadowy  arms  across  the  quiet 
vale, 

And  all  sweet  sounds  the  coming  rest 
foretell, 


And  earth  takes  glory  as  the  sky  grows 
pale, 

So  fond  and  beautiful  the  Day's  fare- 
well! 

LXXXVI 

Farewell,  then,  thou  embosomed  isle 

of  peace 
In  restless  waters !    Let  the  years  in- 
crease 
With  unexpected  blessing :  thou  shalt 

lie 
As  in  her  crystal  shell  the  maiden  lay, 
Watched  o'er  by  weeping  dwarfs,  — ■ 

too  fair  to  die, 
Yet  charmed  from  life :  and  there  may 

come  a  day 
Which  crowns  Desire  with  gift,  and 

Art  with  truth, 
And  Love  with  bliss,  and  Life  with 

wiser  youth  1 


HOME   BALLADS 


HOME    BALLADS 

THE  QUAKER  WIDOW 


Thee  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah,  —  come  in  !     'T  is  kind  of  thee 
To  wait  until  the  Friends  were  gone,  who  came  to  comfort  me. 
The  still  and  quiet  company  a  peace  may  give,  indeed, 
But  blessed  is  the  single  heart  that  comes  to  us  at  need. 


Come,  sit  thee  down!    Here  is  the  bench  where  Benjamin  would  sit 
On  First-day  afternoons  in  spring,  and  watch  the  swallows  flit : 
He  loved  to*  smell  the  sprouting  box,  and  hear  the  pleasant  bees 
Go  humming  round  the  lilacs  and  through  the  apple-trees. 


I  think  he  loved  the  spring  :  not  that  he  cared  for  flowers :  most  men 
Think  such  things  foolishness,  —  but  we  were  first  acquainted  then, 
One  spring :  the  next  he  spoke  his  mind  ;  the  third  I  was  his  wife, 
And  in  the  spring  (it  happened  so)  our  children  entered  life. 

rv 
He  was  but  seventy-five:  I  did  not  think  to  lay  him  yet 
In  Kennett  graveyard,  where  at  Monthly  Meeting  first  we  met. 
The  Father's  mercy  shows  in  this :  'tis  better  I  should  be 
Picked  out  to  bear  the  heavy  cross  —  alone  in  age  —  than  he. 


We  've  lived  together  fifty  years  :  it  seems  but  one  long  day, 
One  quiet  Sabbath  of  the  heart,  till  he  was  called  away  ; 
And  as  we  bring  from  Meeting-time  a  sweet  contentment  home, 
So,  Hannah,  I  have  store  of  peace  for  all  the  days  to  come. 

VT 

I  mind  (for  I  can  tell  thee  now)  how  hard  it  was  to  know 
If  I  had  heard  the  spirit  right,  that  told  me  I  should  go  ; 
For  father  had  a  deep  concern  upon  his  mind  that  day, 
But  mother  spoke  for  Benjamin,  —  she  knew  what  best  to  say. 

in 
Then  she  was  still  :  they  sat  awhile :  at  last  she  spoke  again, 
The  Lord  incline  thee  to  the  right !  "  and  "Thou  shalt  have  him,  Jane! 
My  father  said.     I  cried.     Indeed,  'twas  not  the  least  of  shocks, 
For  Benjamin  was  Hicksite,  and  father  Orthodox. 


I  thought  of  this  ten  years  ago,  when  daughter  Ruth  we  lost : 
Her  husband 's  of  the  world,  and  yet  I  could  not  see  her  crossed. 


238  HOME   BALLADS 

She  wears,  thee  knows,  the  gayest  gowns,  she  hears  a  hireling  priest  ■ 
Ah,  dear!  the  cross  was  ours:  her  life 's  a  happy  one,  at  least. 

rx 

Perhaps  she  '11  wear  a  plainer  dress  when  she  's  as  old  as  I,  — 
Would  thee  believe  it,  Hannah?  once  J  felt  temptation  nigh! 
My  wedding-gown  was  ashen  silk,  too  simple  for  my  taste: 
I  wanted  lace  around  the  neck,  and  a  ribbon  at  the  waist. 


How  strange  it  seemed  to  sit  with  him  upon  the  women's  side  ! 
I  did  not  dare  to  lift  my  eyes  :  I  felt  more  fear  than  pride, 
Till,  "  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord,"  he  said,  and  then  there  came 
A  holy  strength  upon  my  heart,  and  I  could  say  the  same. 

XI 

I  used  to  blush  when  he  came  near,  but  then  I  showed  no  sign  ; 
With  all  the  meeting  looking  on,  I  held  his  hand  in  mine. 
It  seemed  my  bashf ulness  was  gone,  now  I  was  his  for  life : 
Thee  knows  the  feeling,  Hannah,  —  thee,  too,  hast  been  a  wife. 

xn 
As  home  we  rode,  I  saw  no  fields  look  half  so  green  as  ours  ; 
The  woods  were  coming  into  leaf,  the  meadows  full  of  flowers  ; 
The  neighbors  met  us  in  the  lane,  and  every  face  was  kind,  — 
'T  is  strange  how  lively  everything  comes  back  upon  my  mind. 

XIII 

I  see,  as  plain  as  thee  sits  there,  the  wedding-dinner  spread : 

At  our  own  table  we  were  guests,  with  father  at  the  head, 

And  Dinah  Passmore  helped  us  both,  —  't  was  she  stood  up  with  me, 

And  Abner  Jones  with  Benjamin,  —  and  now  they  're  gone,  all  three! 

XIV 

It  is  not  right  to  wish  for  death  ;  the  Lord  disposes  best. 
His  Spirit  comes  to  quiet  hearts,  and  fits  them  for  His  rest; 
And  that  He  halved  our  little  flock  was  merciful,  I  see  : 
For  Benjamin  has  two  in  heaven,  and  two  are  left  with  me. 

xv 

Eusebius  never  cared  to  farm,  —  't  was  not  his  call,  in  truth, 
And  I  must  rent  the  dear  old  place,  and  go  to  daughter  Ruth. 
Thee  '11  say  her  ways  are  not  like  mine,  —  young  people  now-a-days 
Have  fallen  sadly  off,  I  think,  from  all  the  good  old  ways. 

XVI 

But  Ruth  is  still  a  Friend  at  heart ;  she  keeps  the  simple  tongue, 
The  cheerful,  kindly  nature  we  loved  when  she  was  young ; 
And  it  was  brought  upon  my  mind,  remembering  her,  of  late, 
That  we  on  dress  and  outward  things  perhaps  lay  too  much  weight. 

XVII 

I  once  heard  Jesse  Kersey  say,  a  spirit  clothed  with  grace, 
And  pure,  almost,  as  angels  are,  may  have  a  homely  face. 
And  dress  may  be  of  less  account :  the  Lord  will  look  within: 
The  soul  it  is  that  testifies  of  righteousness  or  sin. 


THE   HOLLY-TREE  239 

XVIII 

Thee  must  n't  be  too  hard  on  Ruth :  she  's  anxious  I  should  go, 
And  she  will  do  her  duty  as  a  daughter  should,  I  know. 
'T  is  hard  to  change  so  late  in  life,  but  we  must  be  resigned : 
The  Lord  looks  down  contentedly  upon  a  willing  mind. 

I860. 


THE  HOLLY-TREE 

1 
The  corn  was  warm  in  the  ground,  the  fences  were  mended  and  made, 
And  the  garden-beds,  as  smooth  as  a  counterpane  is  laid, 
Were  dotted  and  striped  with  green  where  the  peas  and  radishes  grew, 
"With  elecampane  at  the  foot,  and  comfrey,  and  sage,  and  rue. 


The  work  was  done  on  the  farm,  't  was  orderly  everywhere, 
And  comfort  smiled  from  the  earth,  and  rest  was  felt  in  the  air. 
When  a  Saturday  afternoon  at  such  a  time  comes  round, 
The  farmer's  fancies  grow,  as  grows  the  grain  in  his  ground. 


'T  was  so  with  Gabriel  Parke  :  he  stood  by  the  holly-tree 
That  came,  in  the  time  of  Penn,  with  his  fathers  over  the  sea  : 
A  hundred  and  eighty  years  it  had  grown  where  it  first  was  set, 
And  the  thorny  leaves  were  thick  and  the  trunk  was  sturdy  yet. 


From  the  knoll  where  stood  the  house  the  fair  fields  pleasantly  rolled 
To  dells  where  the  laurels  hung,  and  meadows  of  buttercup  gold: 
He  looked  on  them  all  by  turns,  with  joy  in  his  acres  free, 
But  ever  his  thoughts  came  back  to  the  tale  of  the  holly-tree. 


In  beautiful  Warwickshire,  beside  the  Avon  stream, 
John  Parke,  in  his  English  home,  had  dreamed  a  singular  dream. 
He  went  with  a  sorrowful  heart,  for  love  of  a  bashful  maid, 
And  a  vision  came  as  he  slept  one  day  in  a  holly's  shade. 

VI 

An  angel  sat  in  the  boughs,  and  showed  him  a  goodly  land, 
With  hills  that  fell  to  a  brook,  and  forests  on  either  hand, 
And  said  :  ' '  Thou  shalt  wed  thy  love,  and  this  shall  belong  to  you ; 
For  the  earth  has  ever  a  home  for  a  tender  heart  and  true  !  " 

VII 

Even  so  it  came  to  pass,  as  the  angel  promised  then  : 
He  wedded  and  wandered  forth  with  the  earliest  friends  of  Penn, 
And  the  home  foreshown  he  found,  with  all  that  a  home  endears,  — 
A  nest  of  plenty  and  peace,  for  a  hundred  and  eighty  years  1 

VIII 

In  beautiful  Warwickshire  the  life  of  the  two  began,  — 
A  slip  of  the  tree  of  the  dream,  a  far-off  sire  of  the  man ; 


240  HOME   BALLADS 

And  it  seemed  to  Gabriel  Parke,  as  the  leaves  above  him  stirred, 
That  the  secret  dream  of  his  heart  the  soul  of  the  holly  heard. 


Of  Patience  Phillips  he  thought :  she,  too,  was  a  bashful  maid : 
The  blue  of  her  eyes  was  hid  by  the  eyelash's  golden  shade  ; 
But  well  that  she  could  not  hide  the  cheeks  that  were  fair  to  see 
As  the  pink  of  an  apple-bud,  ere  the  blossom  snows  the  tree ! 


Ah !  how  had  the  English  Parke  to  the  English  girl  betrayed, 
Save  a  dream  had  helped  his  heart,  the  love  that  makes  afraid?  — 
That  seemed  to  smother  his  voice,  when  his  blood  so  sweetly  ran, 
And  the  baby  heart  lay  weak  in  the  rugged  breast  of  the  man  ? 


His  glance  came  back  from  the  hills  and  back  from  the  laurel  glen, 
And  fell  on  the  grass  at  his  feet,  where  clucked  a  mother-hen, 
With  a  brood  of  tottering  chicks,  that  followed  as  best  they  might ; 
But  one  was  trodden  and  lame,  and  drooped  in  a  wof  ul  plight. 


He  lifted  up  from  the  grass  the  feeble,  chittering  thing, 
And  warmed  its  breast  at  his  lips,  and  smoothed  its  stumpy  wing, 
When,  lo  !  at  his  side  a  voice  :  "  Is  it  hurt  ?  "  was  all  she  said ; 
But  the  eyes  of  both  were  shy,  and  the  cheeks  of  both  were  red. 

XITI 

She  took  from  his  hand  the  chick,  and  fondled  and  soothed  it  then, 
While,  knowing  that  good  was  meant,  cheerfully  clucked  the  hen  ; 
And  the  tongues  of  the  two  were  loosed  :  there  seemed  a  wonderful  charm 
In  talk  of  the  hatching  fowls  and  spring-work  done  on  the  farm. 

XIV 

But  Gabriel  saw  that  her  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  holly-tree  : 

Have  you  heard,"  he  said,  "how  it  came  with  the  family  over  the  sea ?  " 

He  told  the  story  again,  though  he  knew  she  knew  it  well, 

And  a  spark  of  hope,  as  he  spake,  like  fire  in  his  bosom  fell. 


"  I  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream,  here,  under  the  tree,  just  now," 
He  said  ;  and  Patience  felt  the  warmth  of  his  eyes  on  her  brow : 

"  I  dreamed,  like  the  English  Parke  ;  already  the  farm  I  own, 
But  the  rest  of  the  dream  is  best  —  the  land  is  little,  alone." 

XVI 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  the  maid :  her  flushing  cheek  was  bent, 
And,  under  her  chin,  the  chick  was  cheeping  its  warm  content ; 
But  naught  she  answered  —  then  he  :   "  O  Patience !  I  thought  of  you  ! 
Tell  me  you  take  the  dream,  and  help  me  to  make  it  true  ! " 

XVII 

The  mother  looked  from  the  house,  concealed  by  the  window-pane, 
And  she  felt  that  the  holly's  spell  had  fallen  upon  the  twain  ; 
She  guessed  from  Gabriel's  face  what  the  words  he  had  spoken  were, 
And  blushed  in  the  maiden's  stead,  as  if  they  were  spoken  to  her. 


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"THE   MOTHER    LOOKED    FROM   THE    HOUSE"  (Page  240) 


JOHN   REED  241 

XVIII 

She  blushed,  and  she  turned  away,  ere  the  trembling  man  and  maid 
Silently  hand  in  hand  had  kissed  in  the  holly's  shade, 
And  Patience  -whispered  at  last,  her  sweet  eyes  dim  with  dew : 
;  O  Gabriel !  could  you  dream  as  much  as  I  've  dreamed  of  you  ? " 

xrx 

The  mother  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  in  her  straight  old  chair : 
He 's  got  the  pick  of  the  flock,  so  tidy  and  kind  and  fair ! 
At  first  I  shall  find  it  hard,  to  sit  and  be  still,  and  see 
How  the  house  is  kept  to  rights  by  somebody  else  than  me. 

xx 

But  the  home  must  be  theirs  alone  :  1 11  do  by  her,  if  I  can, 

As  Gabriel's  grandmother  did,  when  I  as  a  wife  began  : 

So  good  and  faithful  he  's  been,  from  the  hour  when  I  gave  him  life, 

He  "shall  master  be  in  the  house,  and  mistress  shall  be  his  wife  !  " 


JOHN  REED 

There  's  a  mist  on  the  meadow  below  ;  the  herring-frogs  chirp  and  cry  ; 
It 's  chill  when  the  sun  is  down,  and  the  sod  is  not  yet  dry: 
The  world  is  a  lonely  place,  it  seems,  and  I  don't  know  why. 

I  see,  as  I  lean  on  the  fence,  how  wearily  trudges  Dan 

"With  the  feel  of  the  spring  in  his  bones,  like  a  weak  and  elderly  man ; 

I  've  had  it  a  many  a  time,  but  we  must  work  when  we  can. 

But  day  after  day  to  toil,  and  ever  from  sun  to  sun, 
Though  up  to  the  season's  front  and  nothing  be  left  undone, 
Is  ending  at  twelve  like  a  clock,  and  beginning  again  at  one. 

The  frogs  make  a  sorrowful  noise,  and  yet  it 's  the  time  they  mate  ; 
There 's  something  comes  with  the  spring,  a  lightness  or  else  a  weight ; 
There  's  something  comes  with  the  spring,  and  it  seems  to  me  it 's  fate. 

It 's  the  hankering  after  a  life  that  you  never  have  learned  to  know ; 

It 's  the  discontent  with  a  life  that  is  always  thus  and  so  ; 

It's  the  wondering  what  we  are,  and  where  we  are  going  to  go. 

My  life  is  lucky  enough,  I  fancy,  to  most  men's  eyes, 
For  the  more  a  family  grows,  the  oftener  some  one  dies, 
And  it 's  now  run  on  so  long,  it  could  n't  be  otherwise. 

And  Sister  Jane  and  myself,  we  have  learned  to  claim  and  yield  ; 

She  rules  in  the  house  at  will,  and  I  in  the  barn  and  field, 

So,  nigh  upon  thirty  years  !  —  as  if  written  and  signed  and  sealed. 

I  could  n't  change  if  I  would  ;  I  've  lost  the  how  and  the  when  ; 
One  day  my  time  will  be  up,  and  Jane  be  the  mistress  then, 
For  single  women  are  tough,  and  live  down  the  single  men. 

She  kept  me  so  to  herself,  she  was  always  the  stronger  hand, 

And  my  lot  showed  well  enough,  when  I  looked  around  in  the  land  ; 

But  I  'm  tired  and  sore  at  heart,  and  I  don't  quite  understand. 


242  HOME   BALLADS 

I  wonder  how  it  had  been  if  I  'd  taken  what  others  need, 
The  plague,  they  say,  of  a  wife,  the  care  of  a  younger  breed  ? 
If  Edith  Pleasanton  now  were  with  me  as  Edith  Reed  ? 

Suppose  that  a  son  well  grown  were  there  in  the  place  of  Dan, 
And  I  felt  myself  in  him,  as  I  was  when  my  work  began  ? 
I  should  feel  no  older,  sure,  and  certainly  more  a  man  ! 

A  daughter,  besides,  in  the  house  ;  nay,  let  there  be  two  or  three  ! 

We  never  can  overdo  the  luck  that  can  never  be, 

And  what  has  come  to  the  most  might  also  have  come  to  me. 

I've  thought,  when  a  neighbor's  wife  or  his  child  was  carried  away, 
That  to  have  no  loss  was  a  gain  ;  but  now,  —  I  can  hardly  say  ; 
He  seems  to  possess  them  still,  under  the  ridges  of  clay. 

And  share  and  share  in  a  life  is,  somehow,  a  different  thing 
From  property  held  by  deed,  and  the  riches  that  oft  take  wing  ; 
I  feel  so  close  in  the  breast !  —  I  think  it  must  be  the  spring. 

I  'm  drying  up  like  a  brook  when  the  woods  have  been  cleared  around 
You're  sure  it  must  always  run,  you  are  used  to  the  sight  and  sound, 
But  it  shrinks  till  there 's  only  left  a  stony  rut  in  the  ground. 

There's  nothing  to  do  but  take  the  days  as  they  come  and  go, 
And  not  to  worry  with  thoughts  that  nobody  likes  to  show, 
For  people  so  seldom  talk  of  the  things  they  want  to  know. 

There 's  times  when  the  way  is  plain,  and  everything  nearly  right, 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  you  stand  like  a  man  with  a  clouded  sight : 
A  bush  seems  often  a  beast,  in  the  dusk  of  the  falling  night. 

-     I  must  move ;  my  joints  are  stiff  ;  the  weather  is  breeding  rain, 
And  Dan  is  hurrying  on  with  his  plough-team  up  the  lane. 
I  '11  go  to  the  village-store  ;  I  'd  rather  not  talk  with  Jane. 

1872. 


JANE  REED 

:  If  I  could  forget,"  she  said,  "  forget,  and  begin  again  ! 
We  see  so  dull  at  the  time,  and,  looking  back,  so  plain  : 
There's  a  quiet  that's  worse,  I  think,  than  many  a  spoken  strife, 
And  it 's  wrong  that  one  mistake  should  change  the  whole  of  a  life. 

There 's  John,  forever  the  same,  so  steady,  sober,  and  mild  ; 
He  never  storms  as  a  man  who  never  cried  as  a  child  : 
Perhaps  my  ways  are  harsh,  but  if  he  would  seem  to  care, 
There  'd  be  fewer  swallowed  words  and  a  lighter  load  to  bear. 

Here,  Cherry  !  —  she 's  found  me  out,  the  calf  I  raised  in  the  spring, 
And  a  likely  heifer  she 's  grown,  the  foolish,  soft-eyed  thing  ! 
Just  the  even  color  I  like,  without  a  dapple  or  speck,  — 
O  Cherry,  bend  down  your  head,  and  let  me  cry  on  your  neck  ! 


JANE   REED  243 

"  The  poor  dumb  beast  she  is,  she  never  can  know  nor  tell, 
And  it  seems  to  do  me  good,  the  very  shame  of  the  spell: 
So  old  a  woman  and  hard,  and  Joel  so  old  a  man.  — 
But  the  thoughts  of  the  old  go  on  as  the  thoughts  of  the  young  began  ! 

"It's  guessing  that  wastes  the  heart,  far  worse  than  the  surest  fate: 
If  I  knew  he  had  thought  of  me,  I  could  quietly  work  and  wait ; 
And  then  when  either,  at  last,  on  a  bed  of  death  should  lie, 
Why,  one  might  speak  the  truth,  and  the  other  hear  and  die  !  " 

She  leaned  on  the  heifer's  neck  ;  the  dry  leaves  fell  from  the  boughs, 
And  over  the  sweet  late  grass  of  the  meadow  strayed  the  cows  : 
The  golden  dodder  meshed  the  cardinal-flower  by  the  rill ; 
There  was  autumn  haze  in  the  air,  and  sunlight  low  on  the  hill. 

"I've  somehow  missed  my  time,"  she  said  to  herself  and  sighed: 
"What  girls  are  free  to  hope,  a  steady  woman  must  hide, 
But  the  need  outstays  the  chance  :  it  makes  me  cry  and  laugh, 
To  think  that  the  only  thing  I  can  talk  to  now  is  a  calf  !  " 

A  step  came  down  from  the  hill :  she  did  not  turn  or  rise ; 
There  was  something  in  her  heart  that  saw  without  the  eyes. 
She  heard  the  foot  delay,  as  doubting  to  stay  or  go  : 
"Is  the  heifer  for  sale ? "  he  said.     She  sternly  answered,  " No  I  " 

She  lifted  her  head  as  she  spoke:  their  eyes  a  moment  met, 
And  her  heart  repeated  the  words,  "If  I  could  only  forget ! " 
He  turned  a  little  away,  but  her  lowered  eyes  could  see 
His  hand,  as  it  picked  the  bark  from  the  trunk  of  a  hickory-tree. 

: '  Why  can't  we  be  friendly,  Jane  ?  "  his  words  came,  strange  and  slow  ; 

: '  You  seem  to  bear  me  a  grudge,  so  long,  and  so  long  ago ! 
You  were  gay  and  free  with  the  rest,  but  always  so  shy  of  me, 
That,  before  my  freedom  came,  I  saw  that  it  couldn't  be." 

"Joel!  "  was  all  she  cried,  as  their  glances  met  again, 
And  a  sudden  rose  effaced  her  pallor  of  age  and  pain. 
He  picked  at  the  hickory  bark  :  "  It 's  a  curious  thing  to  say  ; 
But  I'm  lonely  since  Phoebe  died  and  the  girls  are  married  away. 

"  That 's  why  these  thoughts  come  back  :  I'm  a  little  too  old  for  pride, 
And  I  never  could  understand  how  love  should  be  all  one  side  : 
T  would  answer  itself,  I  thought,  and  time  would  show  me  how ; 
But  it  did  n't  come  so,  then,  and  it  doesn't  seem  so,  now  ! " 

"  Joel,  it  came  so,  then  !  "  —  and  her  voice  was  thick  with  tears  : 
"  A  hope  for  a  single  day,  and  a  bitter  shame  for  years!  " 

He  snapped  the  ribbon  of  bark  ;  he  turned  from  the  hickory-tree : 
11  Jane,  look  me  once  in  the  face,  and  say  that  you  thought  of  me  ! " 

She  looked,  and  feebly  laughed  :  "It's  a  comfort  to  know  the  truth, 
Though  the  chance  was  thrown  away  in  the  blind  mistake  of  youth." 
"  And  a  greater  comfort,  Jane,"  he  said,  with  a  tender  smile, 
"To  find  the  chance  you  have  lost,  and  keep  it  a  little  while." 


244  HOME   BALLADS 

She  rose  as  he  spake  the  words  :  the  petted  heifer  thrust 
Her  muzzle  between  the  twain,  with  an  animal's  strange  mistrust 
But  over  the  creature's  neck  he  drew  her  to  his  breast : 
"  A  horse  is  never  so  old  but  it  pulls  with  another  best  I  " 

"  It 's  enough  to  know,"  she  said ;  "  to  remember,  not  forget !  " 
"Nay,  nay  :  for  the  rest  of  life  we '11  pay  each  other's  debt !  " 
She  had  no  will  to  resist,  so  kindly  was  she  drawn, 
And  she  sadly  said,  at  last,  "  But  what  will  become  of  John  V 

1876. 


THE  OLD  PENNSYLVANIA  FARMER 

i 
Well  —  well !  this  is  a  comfort,  now  —  the  air  is  mild  as  May, 
And  yet 't  is  March  the  twentieth,  or  twenty-first,  to-day : 
And  Reuben  ploughs  the  hill  for  corn  ;  I  thought  it  would  be  tough, 
But  now  I  see  the  furrows  turned,  I  guess  it 's  dry  enough. 

ii 
I  don't  half  live,  penned  up  in-doors  ;  a  stove 's  not  like  the  sun. 
When  I  can't  see  how  things  go  on,  I  fear  they  're  badly  done  : 
I  might  have  farmed  till  now,  I  think  —  one's  family  is  so  queer  — 
As  if  a  man  can't  oversee  who 's  in  his  eightieth  year  ! 


Father,  I  mind,  was  eighty -five  before  he  gave  up  his ; 
But  he  was  dim  o'  sight,  and  crippled  with  the  rheumatiz. 
I  followed  in  the  old,  steady  way,  so  he  was  satisfied  ; 
But  Reuben  likes  new-fangled  things  and  ways  I  can't  abide. 

IV 

I  'm  glad  I  built  this  southern  porch  ;  my  chair  seems  easier  here  : 
I  have  n't  seen  as  fine  a  spring  this  five-and-twenty  year  ! 
And  how  the  time  goes  round  so  quick!  — a  week,  I  would  have  sworn 
Since  they  were  husking  on  the  flat,  and  now  they  plough  for  corn  ! 


When  I  was  young,  time  had  for  me  a  lazy  ox's  pace, 

But  now  it 's  like  a  blooded  horse,  that  means  to  win  the  race. 

And  yet  I  can't  fill  out  my  days,  I  tire  myself  with  naught ; 

I  'd  rather  use  my  legs  and  hands  than  plague  my  head  with  thought. 


There 's  Marshall,  too,  I  see  from  here  :  he  and  his  boys  begin. 

Why  don't  they  take  the  lower  field  ?  that  one  is  poor  and  thin. 

A  coat  of  lime  it  ought  to  have,  but  they  're  a  doless  set : 

They  think  swamp-mud 's  as  good,  but  we  shall  see  what  corn  they  get! 

VII 

Across  the  level,  Brown's  new  place  begins  to  make  a  show ; 
I  thought  he'd  have  to  wait  for  trees,  but,  bless  me,  how  they  grow  ! 
They  say  it 's  fine  — two  acres  rilled  with  evergreens  and  things  ; 
But  so  much  land  !  it  worries  me,  for  not  a  cent  it  brings. 


I'M   GLAD    I    BUILT   THIS   SOUTHERN    PORCH"  (Page  244) 


THE   OLD   PENNSYLVANIA   FARMER  245 

vin 

He  Las  the  right,  I  don't  deny,  to  please  himself  that  way. 
But  't  is  a  bad  example  set,  and  leads  young  folks  astray  : 
Book-learning  gets  the  upper-hand  and  work  is  slow  and  slack, 
And  they  that  come  long  after  us  will  find  things  gone  to  wrack. 


Now  Reuben  's  on  the  hither  side,  his  team  comes  back  again  ; 
I  know  how  deep  he  sets  the  share,  I  see  the  horses  strain  : 
I  had  that  field  so  clean  of  stones,  but  he  must  plough  so  deep, 
He  '11  have  it  like  a  turnpike  soon,  and  scarcely  fit  for  sheep. 


If  father  lived,  I  'd  like  to  know  what  he  would  say  to  these 

New  notions  of  the  younger  men,  who  farm  by  chemistries  : 

There 's  different  stock  and  other  grass;  there 's  patent  plough  and  cart- 

Five  hundred  dollars  for  a  bull !  it  would  have  broke  his  heart. 


The  maples  must  be  putting  out :  I  see  a  something  red 
Down  yonder  where  the  clearing  laps  across  the  meadow's  head. 
Swamp-cabbage  grows  beside  the  run ;  the  green  is  good  to  see, 
But  wheat 's  the  color,  after  all,  that  cheers  and  'livens  me. 


They  think  I  have  an  easy  time,  no  need  to  worry  now  — 

Sit  in  the  porch  all  day  and  watch  them  mow,  and  sow,  and  plough 

Sleep  in  the  summer  in  the  shade,  in  winter  in  the  sun  — 

I  'd  rather  do  the  thing  myself,  and  know  just  how  it 's  done  ! 

xin 

Well  —  I  suppose  I  'm  old,  and  yet 't  is  not  so  long  ago 
When  Reuben  spread  the  swath  to  dry,  and  Jesse  learned  to  mow, 
And  William  raked,  and  Israel  hoed,  and  Joseph  pitched  with  me  : 
But  such  a  man  as  I  was  then  my  boys  will  never  be ! 


I  don't  mind  William's  hankering  for  lectures  and  for  books; 
He  never  had  a  farming  knack  —  you  'd  see  it  in  his  looks ; 
But  handsome  is  that  handsome  does,  and  he  is  well  to  do: 
'T  would  ease  my  mind  if  I  could  say  the  same  of  Jesse,  too. 

xv 

There 's  one  black  sheep  in  every  flock,  so  there  must  be  in  mine, 
But  I  was  wrong  that  second  time  his  bond  to  undersign  : 
It 's  less  than  what  his  share  will  be  —  but  there 's  the  interest! 
In  ten  years  more  I  might  have  had  two  thousand  to  invest. 

XVI 

There  's  no  use  thinking  of  it  now,  and  yet  it  makes  me  sore  ; 
The  way  I  've  slaved  and  saved,  I  ought  to  count  a  little  more. 
I  never  lost  a  foot  of  land,  and  that 's  a  comfort,  sure, 
And  if  they  do  not  call  me  rich,  they  cannot  call  me  poor. 


246  HOME   BALLADS 

XVII 

Well,  well!  ten  thousand  times  I 've  thought  the  things  I'm  thinking  now; 
I  've  thought  them  in  the  harvest-field  and  in  the  clover-mow  ; 
And  often  I  get  tired  of  them,  and  wish  I  'd  something  new  — 
But  this  is  all  I ' ve  had  and  known ;  so  what 's  a  man  to  do  ? 

XVIII 

'T  is  like  my  time  is  nearly  out,  of  that  I  'm  not  afraid  : 

I  never  cheated  any  man,  and  all  my  debts  are  paid. 

They  call  it  rest  that  we  shall  have,  but  work  would  do  no  harm ; 

There  can't  be  rivers  there  and  fields,  without  some  sort  o'  farm! 


HOME   PASTORALS 


AD  AMICOS 

MOUNT  CUBA,  OCTOBER  10,  1874. 

Sometimes  an  hour  of  Fate's  serenest  weather 
Strikes  through  our  changeful  sky  its  coming  beams  ; 

Somewhere  above  us,  in  elusive  ether, 
Waits  the  fulfilment  of  our  dearest  dreams. 

So,  when  the  wayward  time  and  gift  have  blended, 
When  hope  beholds  relinquished  visions  won, 

The  heavens  are  broken  and  a  blue  more  splendid 
Holds  in  its  bosom  an  enchanted  sun. 

Then  words  unguessed,  in  faith's  own  shyness  guarded, 
To  ears  unused  their  welcome  music  bear: 

Then  hands  help  on  that  doubtingly  retarded, 
And  love  is  liberal  as  the  Summer  air. 

The  thorny  chaplet  of  a  slow  probation 

Becomes  the  laurel  Fate  so  long  denied  ; 
The  form  achieved  smiles  on  the  aspiration, 

And  dream  is  deed  and  Art  is  justified! 

Ah,  nevermore  the  dull  neglect,  that  smothers 
The  bard's  dependent  being,  shall  return  ; 

Forgotten  lines  are  on  the  lips  of  others, 
Extinguished  thoughts  in  other  spirits  burn ! 

Still  hoarded  lives  what  seemed  so  spent  and  wasted, 
And  echoes  come  from  dark  or  empty  years  ; 

Here  brims  the  golden  cup,  no  more  untasted, 
But  fame  is  dim  through  mists  of  grateful  tears. 

I  sang  but  as  the  living  spirit  taught  me, 

Beat  towards  the  light,  perchance  with  wayward  wing ; 
And  still  must  answer,  for  the  cheer  you  've  brought  me: 

I  sang  because  I  could  not  choose  but  sing. 

From  that  wide  air,  whose  greedy  silence  swallows 
So  many  voices,  even  as  mine  seemed  lost, 

I  hear  you  speak,  and  sudden  glory  follows, 
As  from  a  falling  tongue  of  Pentecost. 

So  heard  and  hailed  by  you,  that,  standing  nearest, 
Blend  love  with  faith  in  one  far-shining  flame, 

I  hold  anew  the  earliest  gift  and  dearest,  — 
The  happy  Song  that  cares  not  for  its  fame  1 


HOME    PASTORALS 

1869-1874 

PROEM 

1 
Now,  when  the  mocking-bird  returned,  from  his  Florida  winter, 
Sings  where  the  sprays  of  the  elm  first  touch  the  plumes  of  the  cypress 
When  on  the  southern  porch  the  stars  of  the  jessamine  sparkle 
Faint  in  the  dusk  of  leaves  ;  and  the  thirsty  ear  of  the  Poet 
Calls  for  the  cup  of  song  himself  must  mix  ere  it  gladden,  — 
Careful  vintager  first,  though  latest  guest  at  the  banquet,  — 
Where  shall  he  turn  ?     What  foreign  Muse  invites  to  her  vineyard  ? 
Out  of  what  bloom  of  the  Past  the  wine  of  remoter  romances  ? 
Foxy  our  grapes,  of  earthy  tang  and  a  wildwood  astringence 
Unto  fastidious  tongues  ;  but  later,  it  may  be,  their  juices, 
Mellowed  by  time,  shall  grow  to  be  sweet  on  the  palates  of  others. 
So  will  I  paint  in  my  verse  the  forms  of  the  life  I  am  born  to, 
Not  mediaeval,  or  ancient  !    For  whatso  hath  palpable  colors, 
Drawn  from  being  and  blood,  nor  thrown  by  the  spectrum  of  Fancy, 
Charms  in  the  Future  even  as  truth  of  the  Past  in  the  Present. 


Not  for  this,  nor  for  nearer  voices  of  intimate  counsel,  — 

When  were  ever  they  heeded  ?  —  but  since  I  am  sated  with  visions, 

Sated  with  all  the  siren  Past  and  its  rhythmical  phantoms, 

Here  will  I  seek  my  songs  in  the  quiet  fields  of  my  boyhood, 

Here,  where  the  peaceful  tent  of  home  is  pitched  for  a  season. 

High  is  the  house  and  sunny  the  lawn:  the  capes  of  the  woodlands 

Bluff,  and  buttressed  with  many  boughs,  are  gates  to  the  distance, 

Blue  with  hill  over  hill,  that  sink  as  the  pausing  of  music. 

Here  the  hawthorn  blossoms,  the  breeze  is  blithe  in  the  orchards, 

Winds  from  the  Chesapeake  dull  the  sharper  edge  of  the  winters, 

Letting  the  cypress  live,  and  the  mounded  box,  and  the  holly  ; 

Here  the  chestnuts  fall  and  the  cheeks  of  peaches  are  crimson, 

Ivy  clings  to  the  wall  and  sheltered  fattens  the  fig-tree. 

North  and  South  are  as  one  in  the  blended  growth  of  the  region, 

One  in  the  temper  of  man,  and  ancient,  inherited  habits. 

in 
Yet,  though  fair  as  the  loveliest  landscapes  of  pastoral  England, 
Who  hath  touched  them  with  song  ?  and  whence  my  music,  and  whither 
Life  still  bears  the  stamp  of  its  early  struggle  and  labor, 
Still  is  shorn  of  its  color  by  pious  Quaker  repression, 
Still  is  turbid  with  calm,  or  only  swift  in  the  shallows. 
Gone  are  the  olden  cheer,  the  tavern-danco  and  the  fox-hunt, 
Muster  at  trainings,  buxom  lasses  that  rode  upon  pillions, 


250  HOME   PASTORALS 

Husking-parties  and  jovial  home-comings  after  the  wedding, 
Gone,  as  they  never  had  been! — and  now,  the  serious  people 
Solemnly  gather  to  hear  some  wordy  itinerant  speaker 
Talking  of  Temperance,  Peace,  or  the  Right  of  Suffrage  for  Women. 
Sport,  that  once  like  a  boy  was  equally  awkward  and  restless, 
Sits  with  thumb  in  his  mouth,  while  a  petulant  ethical  bantling 
Struts  with  his  rod,  and  threatens  our  careless  natural  joyance. 
Weary  am  I  with  all  this  preaching  the  force  of  example, 
Painful  duty  to  self,  and  painfuller  still  to  one's  neighbor, 
Moral  shibboleths,  dinned  in  one's  ears  with  slavering  unction, 
Till,  for  the  sake  of  a  change,  profanity  loses  its  terrors. 


Clearly,  if  song  is  here  to  be  found,  I  must  seek  it  within  me  : 
Song,  the  darling  spirit  that  ever  asserted  her  freedom, 
Soaring  on  sunlit  wing  above  the  clash  of  opinions, 
Poised  at  the  height  of  Good  with  a  sweeter  and  lovelier  instinct ! 
Call  thee  I  will  not,  my  life's  one  dear  and  beautiful  Angel, 
Wayward,  faithful  and  fond  ;  but,  like  the  Friends  in  the  Meeting, 
Waiting,  will  so  dispose  my  soul  in  the  pastoral  stillness, 
That,  denied  to  Desire,  Obedience  yet  may  invite  thee  ! 


MAY-TIME 


Yes,  it  is  May !  though  not  that  the  young  leaf  pushes  its  velvet 

Out  of  the  sheath,  that  the  stubbornest  sprays  are  beginning  to  bourgeon, 

Larks  responding  aloft  to  the  mellow  flute  of  the  bluebird, 

Nor  that  song  and  sunshine  and  odors  of  life  are  immingled 

Even  as  wines  in  a  cup  ;  but  that  May,  with  her  delicate  philtres 

Drenches  the  veins  and  the  valves  of  the  heart,  —  a  double  possession, 

Touching  the  sleepy  sense  with  sweet,  irresistible  languor, 

Piercing,  in  turn,  the  languor  with  flame  :  as  the  spirit,  requickened 

Stirred  in  the  womb  of  the  world,  foreboding  a  birth  and  a  being  ! 


Who  can  hide  from  her  magic,  break  her  insensible  thraldom, 
Clothing  the  wings  of  eager  delight  as  with  plumage  of  trouble  ? 
Sweeter,  perchance,  the  embryo  Spring,  forerunner  of  April, 
When  on  banks  that  slope  to  the  south  the  saxifrage  wakens, 
When,  beside  the  dentils  of  frost  that  cornice  the  road-side, 
Weeds  are  a  promise,  and  woods  betray  the  trailing  arbutus. 
Once  is  the  sudden  miracle  seen,  the  truth  and  its  rapture 
Felt,  and  the  pulse  of  the  possible  May  is  throbbing  already. 
Thus  unto  me,  a  boy,  the  clod  that  was  warm  in  the  sunshine, 
Murmurs  of  thaw,  and  imagined  hurry  of  growth  in  the  herbage, 
Airs  from  over  the  southern  hills,  — and  something  within  me 
Catching  a  deeper  sign  from  these  than  ever  the  senses,  — 
Came  as  a  call :  I  awoke,  and  heard,  and  endeavored  to  answer. 
Whence  should  fall  in  my  lap  the  sweet,  impossible  marvel  ? 
When  would  the  silver  fay  appear  from  the  willowy  thicket  ? 
When  from  the  yielding  rock  the  gnome  with  his  basket  of  jewels  ? 
1  When,  ah  when  ?  "  I  cried,  on  the  steepest  perch  of  the  hillside 
Standing  with  arms  outspread,  and  waiting  a  wind  that  should  bear  me 
Over  the  apple-tree  tops  and  over  the  farms  of  the  valley. 


MAY-TIME  ?5i 

in 
He,  that  will,  let  him  backward  set  the  stream  of  his  fancy, 
So  to  evoke  a  dream  from  the  ruined  world  of  his  boyhood  ! 
Lo,  it  is  easy  !     Yonder,  lapped  in  the  folds  of  the  uplands, 
Bickers  the  brook,  to  warmer  hollows  southerly  creeping, 
"Where  the  veronica's  eyes  are  blue,  the  buttercup  brightens, 
"Where  the  anemones  blush,  the  coils  of  fern  are  unrolling 
Hour  by  hour,  and  over  them  flutter  the  sprinkles  of  shadow. 
There  shall  I  lie  and  dangle  my  naked  feet  in  the  water, 
Watching  the  sleeping  buds  as  one  after  one  they  awaken, 
Seeking  a  lesson  in  each,  a  brookside  primrose  of  Wordsworth  ?  — 
Lie  in  the  lap  of  May,  as  a  babe  that  loveth  the  cradle, 
I,  whom  her  eye  inspires,  whom  the  breath  of  her  passion  arouses  ? 
Say,  shall  I  stray  with  bended  head  to  look  for  her  posies, 
When  with  other  wings  than  the  coveted  lift  of  the  breezes 
Far  I  am  borne,  at  her  call  :  and  the  pearly  abysses  are  parted 
Under  my  flight  :  the  glimmering  edge  of  the  planet,  receding, 
Rounds  to  the  splendider  sun  and  ripens  to  glory  of  color. 
Yeering  at  will,  I  view  from  a  crest  of  the  jungled  Antilles 
Sparkling,  limitless  billows  of  greenness,  falling  and  flowing 
Into  fringes  of  palm  and  the  foam  of  the  blossoming  coffee,  — 
Cratered  isles  in  the  offing,  milky  blurs  of  the  coral 
Keys,  and  vast,  beyond,  the  purple  arc  of  the  ocean  : 
Or,  in  the  fanning  furnace-winds  of  the  tenantless  Pampas, 
Hear  the  great  leaves  clash,  the  shiver  and  hiss  of  the  reed-beds. 
Thus  for  the  crowded  fulness  of  life  I  leave  its  beginnings, 
Not  content  to  feel  the  sting  of  an  exquisite  promise 
Ever  renewed  and  accepted,  and  ever  freshly  forgotten. 


Wherefore,  now,  recall  the  pictures  of  memory  ?    Wherefore 

Yearn  for  a  fairer  seat  of  life  than  this  I  have  chosen  ? 

Ah,  while  my  quiver  of  wandering  years  was  yet  unexhausted, 

Treading  the  lands,  a  truant  that  wasted  the  gifts  of  his  freedom, 

Sweet  was  the  sight  of  a  home  —  or  tent,  or  cottage,  or  castle,  — 

Sweet  unto  pain  ;  and  never  beheld  I  a  Highlander's  shieling, 

Never  a  Flemish  hut  by  a  lazy  canal  and  its  pollards, 

Never  the  snowy  gleam  of  a  porch  through  Apennine  orchards, 

Never  a  nest  of  life  on  the  hoary  hills  of  Judaea, 

Dropped  on  the  steppes  of  the  Don,  or  hidden  in  valleys  of  Norway, 

But,  with  the  fond  and  foolish  trick  of  a  heart  that  was  homeless, 

Each  was  mine,  as  I  passed  :  I  entered  in  and  possessed  it, 

Looked,  in  fancy,  forth,  and  adjusted  my  life  to  the  landscape. 

Easy  it  seemed,  to  shift  the  habit  of  blood  as  a  mantle, 

Fable  a  Past,  and  lightly  take  the  form  of  the  Future, 

So  that  a  rest  were  won,  a  hold  for  the  filaments,  floating 

Loose  in  the  winds  of  Life.     Here,  now,  behold  it  accomplished ! 

Nay,  but  the  restless  Fate,  the  certain  Nemesis  follows, 

As  to  the  bird  the  voice  that  bids  him  prepare  for  his  passage, 

Saying  :  "  Not  this  is  the  whole,  not  these,  nor  any,  the  borders 

Set  for  thy  being  ;  this  measured,  slow  repetition  of  Nature, 

Painting,  effacing,  in  turn,  with  hardly  a  variant  outline, 

Cannot  replace  for  thee  the  Earth's  magnificent  frescoes! 

Art  thou  content  to  inhabit  a  simple  pastoral  chamber, 

Leaving  the  endless  halls  of  her  grandeur  and  glory  untrodden  ?  " 


252  HOME   PASTORALS 

v 

Man,  I  answer,  is  more  :  I  am  glutted  with  physical  beauty 

Born  of  the  suns  and  rains  and  the  plastic  throes  of  the  ages. 

Man  is  more  ;  but  neither  dwarfed  like  a  tree  of  the  Arctic 

Vales,  nor  clipped  into  shape  as  a  yew  in  the  gardens  of  princes. 

Give  me  to  know  him,  here,  where  inherited  laws  and  disguises 

Hide  him  at  times  from  himself,  —  where  his  thought  is  chiefly  collective, 

Where,  with  numberless  others  fettered  like  slaves  in  a  coffle, 

Each  insists  he  is  free,  inasmuch  as  his  bondage  is  willing. 

Who  hath  rent  from  the  babe  the  primitive  rights  of  his  nature  ? 

Who  hath  fashioned  his  yoke  ?  who  patterned  beforehand  his  manhood  ? 

Say,  shall  never  a  soul  be  moved  to  challenge  its  portion, 

Seek  for  a  wider  heritage  lost,-  a  new  disenthralment, 

Sending  a  root  to  be  fed  from  the  deep  original  sources, 

So  that  the  fibres  wax  till  they  split  the  centuried  granite  ? 

Surely,  starting  alike  at  birth  from  the  ignorant  Adam, 

Every  type  of  the  race  were  herein  distinctly  repeated, 

Hinted  in  hopes  and  desires,  and  harmless  divergence  of  habit, 

Save  that  the  law  of  the  common  mind  is  invisibly  written 

Even  on  our  germs,  and  Life  but  warms  into  color  the  letters. 


Thence,  it  may  be,  accustomed  to  dwell  in  a  moving  horizon, 
Here,  alas !  the  steadfast  circle  of  things  is  a  weary 
Round  of  monotonous  forms :  I  am  haunted  by  livelier  visions. 
Linking  men  and  their  homes,  endowing  both  with  the  language, 
Sweeter  than  speech,  the  soul  detects  in  a  natural  picture, 
I  to  my  varying  moods  the  fair  remembrances  summon, 
Glad  that  once  and  somewhere  each  was  a  perfect  possession. 
Two  will  I  paint,  the  forms  of  the  double  passion  of  May -time,  — 
Rest  and  activity,  indolent  calm  and  the  sweep  of  the  senses. 
One,  the  soft  green  lap  of  a  deep  Dalecarlian  valley, 
Sheltered  by  piny  hills  and  the  distant  porphyry  mountains  ; 
Low  and  red  the  house,  and  the  meadow  spotted  with  cattle  ; 
All  things  fair  and  clear  in  the  light  of  the  midsummer  Sabbath, 
Touching,  beyond  the  steel-blue  lake  and  the  twinkle  of  birch-trees, 
Houses  that  nestle  like  chicks  around  the  motherly  church-roof. 
There,  I  know,  there  is  innocence,  ancient  duty  and  honor, 
Love  that  looks  from  the  eye  and  truth  that  sits  on  the  forehead, 
Pure,  sweet  blood  of  health,  and  the  harmless  freedom  of  nature, 
Witless  of  blame  ;  for  the  heart  is  safe  in  inviolate  childhood. 
Dear  is  the  scene,  but  it  fades  :  I  see,  with  a  leap  of  the  pulses, 
Tawny  under  the  lidless  sun  the  sand  of  the  Desert, 
Fiery  solemn  hills,  and  the  burning  green  of  the  date-trees 
Belting  the  Nile:  the  tramp  of  the  curvetting  stallions  is  muffled; 
Brilliantly  stamped  on  the  blue  are  the  white  and  scarlet  of  turbans ; 
Lances  prick  the  sky  with  a  starry  glitter  ;  the  fulness, 
Joy,  and  delight  of  life  are  sure  of  the  day  and  the  morrow, 
Certain  the  gifts  of  sense,  and  the  simplest  order  suffices. 
Breathing  again,  as  once,  the  perfect  air  of  the  Desert, 
Good  it  seems  to  escape  from  the  endless  menace  of  duty, 
There,  where  the  will  is  free,  and  wilfully  plays  with  its  freedom, 
And  the  lack  of  will  for  the  evil  thing  is  a  virtue. 

VII 

Man  is  more,  I  have  said  :  but  the  subject  mood  is  a  fashion 
Wrought  of  his  lighter  mind  and  dyed  with  the  hues  of  his  senses. 


AUGUST  253 

Then  to  be  truly  more,  to  be  verily  free,  to  be  master 

As  beseems  to  the  haughty  soul  that  is  lifted  by  knowledge 

Over  the  multitude's  law,  enforcing  their  own  acquiescence,  — 

Lifted  to  longing  and  will,  in  its  satisfied  loneliness  centred,  — 

This  prohibits  the  cry  of  the  nerves,  the  weak  lamentation 

Shaming  my  song  :  for  I  know  whence  cometh  its  languishing  burden. 

Impotent  all  I  have  dreamed,  —  and  the  calmer  vision  assures  me 

Such  were  barren,  and  vapid  the  taste  of  joy  that  is  skin-deep. 

Better  the  nest  than  the  wandering  wing,  the  loving  possession, 

Intimate,  ever-renewed,  than  the  circle  of  shallower  changes. 


AUGUST 


Dead  is  the  air,  and  still !  the  leaves  of  the  locust  and  walnut 
Lazily  hang  from  the  boughs,  inlaying  their  intricate  outlines 
Rather  on  space  than  the  sky,  —  on  a  tideless  expansion  of  slumber. 
Faintly  afar  in  the  depths  of  the  duskily  withering  grasses 
Katydids  chirp,  and  I  hear  the  monotonous  rattle  of  crickets. 
Dead  is  the  air,  and  ah  !  the  breath  that  was  wont  to  refresh  me 
Out  of  the  volumes  I  love,  the  heartful,  whispering  pages, 
Dies  on  the  type,  and  I  see  but  wearisome  characters  only. 
Therefore  be  still,  thou  yearning  voice  from  the  garden  in  Jena,  — 
Still,  thou  answering  voice  from  the  park-side  cottage  in  Weimar,  — 
Still,  sentimental  echo  from  chambers  of  office  in  Dresden,  — 
Ye.  and  the  feebler  and  farther  voices  that  sound  in  the  pauses  ! 
Each  and  all  to  the  shelves  I  return  :  for  vain  is  your  commerce 
Xow,  when  the  world  and  the  brain  are  numb  in  the  torpor  of  August. 


Over  the  tasselled  corn,  and  fields  of  the  twice-blossomed  clover, 
Dimly  the  hills  recede  in  the  reek  of  the  colorless  hazes  : 
Dull  and  lustreless,  now,  the  burnished  green  of  the  woodlands  ; 
Leaves  of  blackberry  briers  are  bronzed  and  besprinkled  with  copper  ; 
Weeds  in  the  unmown  meadows  are  blossoming  purple  and  yellow, 
Roughly  entwined,  a  wreath  for  the  tan  and  wrinkles  of  Summer. 
Where  shall  I  turn  ?     What  path  attracts  the  indifferent  footstep, 
Eager  no  more  as  in  June,  nor  lifted  with  wings  as  in  May-time  ? 
Whitherward  look  for  a  goal,  when  buds  have  exhausted  their  promise, 
Harvests  are  reaped,  and  grapes  and  berries  are  waiting  for  Autumn  ? 
Wander,  my  feet,  as  ye  list !    I  am  careless,  to-day,  to  direct  you. 
Take,  here,  the  path  by  the  pines,  the  russet  carpet  of  needles 
Stretching  from  wood  to  wood,  and  hidden  from  sight  by  the  orchard  ! 
Here,  in  the  sedge  of  the  slope,  the  centaury  pink,  as  a  sea-shell, 
Opens  her  stars  all  at  once,  and  with  finer  than  tropical  spices 
Sweetens  the  season's  drouth,  the  censer  of  fields  that  are  sterile. 
]STow,  from  the  height  of  the  grove,  between  the  irregular  tree-trunks, 
Over  the  falling  fields  and  the  meadowy  curves  of  the  valley, 
Glimmer  the  peaceful  farms,  the  mossy  roofs  of  the  houses, 
Gables  gray  of  the  neighboring  barns,  and  gleams  of  the  highway 
Climbing  the  ridges  beyond  to  dip  in  the  dream  of  a  forest. 

in 
Ah.  forsaking  the  shade,  and  slowly  crushing  the  stubble, 
Parting  the  viscous  roseate  stems  and  the  keen  penn}rroyal, 


254  HOME   PASTORALS 

Rises  a  different  scene,  suggestion  of  heat  and  of  stillness,  — 
Heat  as  intense  and  stillness  as  dumb,  the  immaculate  ether's 
Hush  when  it  vaults  the  waveless  Mediterranean  sea-floor;  ' 
Golden  the  hills  of  Cos,  with  pencilled  cerulean  shadows  ; 
Phantoms  of  Carian  shores  that  are  painted  and  fade  in  the  distance  ; 
Patmos  behind,  and  westward  the  flushed  Ariadnean  ISTaxos,  — 
Once  as  I  saw  them  sleeping,  drugged  by  the  poppy  of  Summer. 
There,  indeed,  was  the  air,  as  with  floating  stars  of  the  thistle 
Filled  with  impalpable  forms,  regrets,  possibilities,  longings, 
Beauty  that  was  and  was  not,  and  Life  that  was  rhythmic  and  joyous, 
So  that  the  sun-baked  clay  the  peasant  took  for  his  wine-jars 
Brighter  than  gold  I  thought,  and  the  red  acidity  nectar. 
Here,  at  my  feet,  the  clay  is  clay  and  a  nuisance  the  stubble, 
Flaring  St.  John's-wort,  milk-weed,  and  coarse,  unpoetical  mullein  ;  — 
Yet,  were  it  not  for  the  poets,  say,  is  the  asphodel  fairer  ? 
Were  not  the  mullein  as  dear,  had  Theocritus  sung  it,  or  Bion  ? 
Yea,  but  they  did  not ;  and  we,  whose  fancy's  tenderest  tendrils 
Shoot  unsupported,  and  wither,  for  want  of  a  Past  we  can  cling  to, 
We,  so  starved  in  the  Present,  so  weary  of  singing  the  Future,  — 
What  is  't  to  us,  if,  haply,  a  score  of  centuries  later, 
Milk- weed  inspires  Patagonian  tourists,  and  mulleins  are  classic  ? 

IT 

Idly  balancing  fortunes,  feeling  the  spite  of  them,  maybe,  — 

For  the  little  withheld  outweighs  the  much  that  is  given,  — 

Feeling  the  pang  of  the  brain,  the  endless,  unquenchable  yearning 

Born  of  the  knowledge  of  Beauty,  not  to  be  shared  or  imparted, 

Slowly  I  stray,  and  drop  by  degrees  to  the  thickets  of  alder 

Fringing  a  couch  of  the  stream,  a  basin  of  watery  slumber. 

Broken,  it  seems  ;  for  the  splash  and  the  drip  and  the  bubbles  betoken 

What  ?  —  the  bath  of  a  nymph,  the  bashful  strife  of  a  Hylas  ? 

Broad  is  the  back,  and  bent  from  an  un-Olympian  stooping, 

Narrow  the  loins  and  firm,  the  white  of  the  thighs  and  the  shoulders 

Changing  to  reddest  and  toughest  of  tan  at  the  knees  and  the  elbows. 

Is  it  a  faun  ?    He  sees  me,  nor  cares  to  hide  in  the  thickets. 

Faun  of  the  bog  is  he,  a  sylvan  creature  of  Galway 

Come  from  the  ditch  below,  to  cleanse  him  of  sweat  and  of  muck-stain ; 

Willing  to  give  me  speech,  as,  naked,  he  stands  in  the  shallows. 

Something  of  coarse,  uncouth,  barbaric,  he  leaves  on  the  bank  there; 

Something  of  primitive  human  fairness  cometh  to  clothe  him. 

Were  he  not  bent  with  the  pick,  but  straightened  from  reaching  the  bunches 

Hung  from  the  mulberry  branches,  —  heard  he  the  bacchanal  cymbals, 

Took  from  the  sun  an  even  gold  on  the  web  of  his  muscles, 

Knew  the  bloom  of  his  stunted  bud  of  delight  of  the  senses,  — 

Then  as  faun  or  shepherd  he  might  have  been  welcome  in  marble. 

Yea,  but  he  is  not ;  and  I,  requiring  the  beautiful  balance, 

Music  of  life  in  the  body,  and  limbs  too  fair  to  be  hidden, 

Find,  indeed,  some  delicate  colors  and  possible  graces,  — 

Moral  hints  of  the  man  beneath  the  unsavory  garments,  — 

Find  them,  and  sigh,  lamenting  the  law  reversed  of  the  races 

Starting  the  world  afresh  on  the  basis  unlovely  of  Labor. 

v 
Was  it  a  spite  of  fate  that  blew  me  hither,  an  exile, 
Still  unweaned,  and  not  to  be  weaned,  from  the  milk  I  was  born  to  ? 
Bitter  the  stranger's  bread  to  the  homesick,  hungering  palate; 


AUGUST  255 

Bitterer  still  to  the  soul  the  taste  of  the  food  that  is  foreign  ! 
Yet  must  I  take  it,  yet  live,  and  somehow  seem  to  be  healthy, 
Lest  my  neighbors,  perchance,  be  shocked  by  an  uncomprehended 
Violent  clamor  for  that  which  I  crave  and  they  cannot  supply  me,  — 
Hunger  unmeet  for  the  times,  anachronistical  passions,  — 
Beauty  seeming  distorted  because  the  rule  is  distortion. 
Here  is  a  tangle  which,  now,  too  idle  am  I  to  unravel, 
Snared,  moreover,  by  bitter-sweet,  moon-seed,  and  riotous  fox-grape, 
Meshing  the  thickets  :  procul,  0  procul,  unpractical  fancies  ! 
Verily,  thus  bewildering  myself  in  the  maze  of  aesthetic, 
Solveless  problems,  the  feet  wTere  wellnigh  heedlessly  fettered. 
Thoughtless,  'tis  true,  I  relinquished  my  books;  but  crescit  eundo 
Wisely  was  said,  — for  desperate  vacancy  prompted  the  ramble, 
Memories  prolonged,  and  a  phantom  of  logic  urges  it  onward. 

VI 

Here  are  the  fields  again  !     The  soldierly  maize  in  tassel 

Stands  on  review,  and  carries  the  scabbarded  ears  in  its  arm-pits. 

Rustling  I  part  the  ranks,  — the  close,  engulfing  battalions 

Shaking  their  plumes  overhead,  —  and,  wholly  bewildered  and  heated, 

Gain  the  top  of  the  ridge,  where  stands,  colossal,  the  pin-oak. 

Yonder,  a  mile  away,  I  see  the  roofs  of  the  village,  — 

See  the  crouching  front  of  the  meeting-house  of  the  Quakers, 

Oddly  conjoined  with  the  whittled  Presbyterian  steeple. 

Right  and  left  are  the  homes  of  the  slow,  conservative  farmers, 

Loyal  people  and  true,  but,  now  that  the  battles  are  over, 

Zealous  for  Temperance,  Peace,  and  the  Right  of  Suffrage  for  "Women. 

Orderly,  moral,  are  they,  —  at  least,  in  the  sense  of  suppression  ; 

Given  to  preaching  of  rules,  inflexible  outlines  of  duty  ; 

Seeing  the  sternness  of  life,  but,  alas !  overlooking  its  graces. 

Let  me  be  juster  :  the  scattered  seeds  of  the  graces  are  planted 

Widely  apart ;  but  the  trumpet-vine  on  the  porch  is  a  token  ; 

Yea,  and  aw^ake  and  alive  are  the  forces  of  love  and  affection, 

Plastic  forces  that  work  from  the  tenderer  models  of  beauty. 

Who  shall  dare  to  speak  of  the  possible  ?    Who  shall  encounter 

Pity  and  wrath  and  reproach,  recalling  the  record  immortal 

Left  by  the  races  when  Beauty  was  law  and  Joy  was  religion  ? 

Who  to  the  Duty  in  drab  shall  bring  the  garlanded  Pleasure  ?  — 

Break  with  the  chant  of  the  gods,  the  gladsome  timbrels  of  morning, 

Nasal,  monotonous  chorals,  sung  by  the  sad  congregation  ? 

Better  it  were  to  sleep  with  the  owl,  to  house  with  the  hornet, 

Than  to  conflict  with  the  satisfied  moral  sense  of  the  people. 

VII 

Nay,  but  let  me  be  just ;  nor  speak  with  the  alien  language 

Born  of  my  blood  ;  for,  cradled  among  them,  I  know  them  and  love  them. 

Was  it  my  fault,  if  a  strain  of  the  distant  and  dead  generations 

Rose  in  my  being,  renewed,  and  made  me  other  than  these  are  ? 

Purer,  perhaps,  their  habit  of  law  than  the  freedom  they  shrink  from  ; 

So,  restricted  by  will,  a  little  indulgence  is  riot. 

They,  content  with  the  glow  of  a  carefully  tempered  twilight, 

Measured  pulses  of  joy,  and  colorless  growth  of  the  senses, 

Stand  aghast  at  my  dream  of  the  sun,  and  the  sound,  and  the  splendor! 

Mine  it  is,  and  remains,  resenting  the  threat  of  suppression, 

Stubbornly  shaping  my  life,  and  feeding  with  fragments  its  hunger. 

Drifted  from  Attican  hills  to  stray  on  a  Scythian  level, 

So  unto  me  it  appears,  — unto  them  a  perversion  and  scandal. 


256  HOME   PASTORALS 

VIII 

Lo !  in  the  vapors,  the  sun,  colossal  and  crimson  and  beamless, 
Touches  the  woodland  ;  fingers  of  air  prepare  for  the  dew-fall. 
Life  is  fresher  and  sweeter,  insensibly  toning  to  softness 
Needs  and  desires  that  are  but  the  broidered  hem  of  its  mantle, 
Not  the  texture  of  daily  use  ;  and  the  soul  of  the  landscape, 
Breathing  of  justified  rest,  of  peace  developed  by  patience, 
Lures  me  to  feel  the  exquisite  senses  that  come  from  denial, 
Sharper  passion  of  Beauty  never  fulfilled  in  external 
Forms  or  conditions,  but  always  a  fugitive  has-been  or  may -be. 
Bright  and  alive  as  a  want,  incarnate  it  dozes  and  fattens. 
Thus,  in  aspiring,  I  reach  what  were  lost  in  the  idle  possession; 
Helped  by  the  laws  I  resist,  the  forces  that  daily  depress  me  ; 
Bearing  in  secreter  joy  a  luminous  life  in  my  bosom, 
Fair  as  the  stars  on  Cos,  the  moon  on  the  boscage  of  Naxos  ! 
Thus  the  skeleton  Hours  are  clothed  with  rosier  bodies : 
Thus  the  buried  Bacchanals  rise  unto  lustier  dances : 
Thus  the  neglected  god  returns  to  his  desolate  temple: 
Beauty,  thus  rethroned,  accepts  and  blesses  her  children  ! 


NOVEMBER 


Wrapped  in  his  sad-colored  cloak,  the  Day,  like  a  Puritan,  standeth 
Stern  in  the  joyless  fields,  rebuking  the  lingering  color,  — 
Dying  hectic  of  leaves  and  the  chilly  blue  of  the  asters,  — 
Hearing,  perchance,  the  croak  of  a  crow  on  the  desolate  tree-top, 
Breathing  the  reek  of  withered  weeds,  or  the  drifted  and  sodden 
Splendors  of  woodland,  as  whoso  piously  groaneth  in  spirit : 
Vanity,  verily  ;  yea,  it  is  vanity,  let  me  forsake  it ! 
Yea,  let  it  fade,  for  Life  is  the  empty  clash  of  a  cymbal, 
Joy  a  torch  in  the  hands  of  a  fool,  and  Beauty  a  pitfall ! " 


Once,  I  remember,  when  years  had  the  long  duration  of  ages, 
Came,  with  November,  despair  ;  for  summer  had  vanished  forever. 
Lover  of  light,  my  boyish  heart  as  a  lover's  was  jealous, 
Followed  forsaking  suns  and  felt  its  passion  rejected, 
Saw  but  Age  and  Death,  in  the  whole  wide  circle  of  Nature 
Throned  forever ;  and  hardly  yet  have  I  steadied  by  knowledge 
Faith  that  faltered  and  patience  that  was  but  a  weary  submission. 
Though  to  the  right  and  left  I  hear  the  call  of  the  huskers 
Scattered  among  the  rustling  shocks,  and  the  cheerily  whistled 
Lilt  of  an  old  plantation  tune  from  an  ebony  teamster, 
These  behold  no  more  than  the  regular  jog  of  a  mill-wheel 
Where,  unto  me,  there  is  possible  end  and  diviner  beginning. 
Silent  are  now  the  flute  of  Spring  and  the  clarion  of  Summer 
As  they  had  never  been  blown :  the  wail  of  a  dull  Miserere 
Heavily  sweeps  the  woods,  and,  stifled,  dies  in  the  valleys. 


Who  are  they  that  prate  of  the  sweet  consolation  of  Nature  ? 
They  who  fly  from  the  city's  heat  for  a  month  to  the  sea- shore, 
Drink  of  unsavory  springs,  or  camp  in  the  green  Adirondacks  ? 
They,  long  since,  have  left  with  their  samples  of  ferns  and  of  algae, 


NOVEMBER  257 

Memories  carefully  dried  and  somewhat  lacking  in  color, 
Gossip  of  tree  and  cliff  and  wave  and  modest  adventure, 
Such  as  a  graceful  sentiment  —  not  too  earnest  —  admits  of, 
Heard  in  the  pause  of  a  dance  or  bridging  the  gaps  of  a  dinner. 
Nay,  but  I,  who  know  her,  exult  in  her  profligate  seasons, 
Tura  from  the  silence  of  men  to  her  fancied,  fond  recognition, 
I  am  repelled  at  last  by  her  sad  and  cynical  humor. 
Kinder,  cheerier  now,  were  the  pavements  crowded  with  people, 
Walls  that  hide  the  sky,  and  the  endless  racket  of  business. 
There  a  hope  in  something  lifts  and  enlivens  the  current, 
Face  seeth  face,  and  the  hearts  of  a  million,  beating  together, 
Hidden  though  each  from  other,  at  least  are  outwardly  nearer, 
Lending  the  life  of  all  to  the  one,  — bestowing  and  taking, 
Weaving  a  common  web  of  strength  in  the  meshes  of  contact, 
Close,  yet  never  impeded,  restrained,  yet  delighting  in  freedom. 
There  the  soul,  secluded  in  self,  or  touching  its  fellow 
Only  with  horny  palms  that  hide  the  approach  of  the  pulses, 
Driven  abroad,  discovers  the  secret  signs  of  its  kindred, 
Kisses  on  lips  unknown,  and  words  on  the  tongue  of  the  stranger. 
Life  is  set  to  a  statelier  march,  a  grander  accordance 
Follows  its  multitudinous  steps  of  dance  and  of  battle : 
Part  hath  each  in  the  music  ;  even  the  sacredest  whisper 
Findeth  a  soul  unafraid  and  an  ear  that  is  ready  to  listen. 

rv 

Nature  ?    'T  is  well  to  sing  of  the  glassy  Bandusian  fountain, 
Shining  Ortygian  beaches,  or  flocks  on  the  meadows  of  Enna, 
Linking  the  careless  life  with  the  careless  mood  of  the  Mother. 
We,  afar  and  alone,  confronted  with  heavier  questions, 
Robbed  of  the  oaten  pipe  before  it  is  warm  in  our  fingers, 
Why  should  we  feign  a  faith  ?  —  why  crown  an  indifferent  goddess  ? 
Under  the  gray,  monotonous  vault  what  carolling  song-bird 
Hopes  for  an  echo  ?     Closer  and  lower  the  vapors  are  folded  ; 
Sighing  shiver  the  woods,  though  drifted  leaves  are  unrustled  ; 
Ghosts  of  the  grasses  that  fled  with  a  breath  and  floated  in  sunshine 
Hang  unstirred  on  brier  and  fence  ;  for  a  new  desolation 
Comes  with  the  rain,  that,  chilly  and  quietly  creeping  at  nightfall, 
Thence  for  many  a  day  shall  dismally  drizzle  and  darken. 

v 

See!"  (methinks  I  hear  the  mechanical  routine  repeated,) 

Emblems  of  faith  in  the  folded  bud  and  the  seed  that  is  sleeping! " 

Knowledge,  not  Faith,  deduced  the  similitude  ;  how  shall  an  emblem 

Give  to  the  soul  the  steadfast  truth  that  alone  satisfies  it  ? 

Joy  of  the  Spring  I  can  feel,  but  not  the  preaching  of  Autumn. 

Earth,  if  a  lesson  is  wrought  upon  each  of  thy  radiant  pages, 

Give  us  the  words  that  sustain  us,  and  not  the  words  that  discourage  ! 

Sceptic  art  thou  become,  the  breeder  of  doubt  and  confusion, 

Powerless  vassal  of  Fate,  assuming  a  meek  resignation, 

Yielding  the  forces  that  moved  in  thy  life  and  made  it  triumphant  1 

VI 

Xow,  as  my  circle  of  home  is  slowly  swallowed  in  darkness, 
As  with  the  moan  of  winds  the  rain  is  drearily  falling,  — 
Hopes  that  drew  as  the  sun  and  aims  that  stood  as  the  pole-star 
Fading  aloof  from  my  life  as  though  it  never  had  known  them.  — 


258  HOME   PASTORALS 

Where,  when  the  wont  is  deranged,  shall  I  find  a  permanent  foothold  ? 

Stripped  of  the  rags  of  Time  I  see  the  form  of  my  being, 

Born  of  all  that  ever  has  been,  and  haughtily  reaching 

Forward  to  all  that  comes,  —  yet  certain,  this  moment,  of  nothing. 

Chide  or  condemn  as  ye  may,  the  truant  and  mutinous  spirit 

Turns  on  itself,  and  forces  release  from  its  holiest  habit ; 

Soars  where  the  suns  are  sprinkled  in  cold  illimited  darkness, 

Peoples  the  spheres  with  far  diviner  forms  of  existence, 

Questions,  conjectures  at  will  ;  for  Earth  and  its  creeds  are  forgotten. 

Thousands  of  seons  it  gathers,  yet  scarce  its  feet  are  supported  ; 

Dumb  is  the  universe  unto  the  secrets  of  Whence  ?  and  of  Whither  ? 

So,  as  a  dove  through  the  summits  of  ether  falling  exhausted, 

Under  it  yawns  the  blank  of  an  infinite  Something  —  or  Nothing  ! 

VII 

Let  me  indulge  in  the  doubt,  for  this  is  the  token  of  freedom, 

This  is  all  that  is  safe  from  hands  that  would  fain  intermeddle, 

Thrusting  their  worn  phylacteries  over  the  eyes  that  are  seeking 

Truth  as  it  shines  in  the  sky,  not  truth  as  it  smokes  in  their  lantern. 

Ah,  shall  I  venture  alone  beyond  the  limits  they  set  us, 

Bearing  the  spark  within  till  a  breath  of  the  Deity  fan  it 

Into  an  upward-pointing  flame  ?  —  and,  forever  unquiet, 

Nearer  through  error  advance,  and  nearer  through  ignorant  yearning  ? 

Yes,  it  must  be  :  the  soul  from  the  soul  cannot  hide  or  diminish 

Aught  of  its  essence:  here  the  duplicate  nature  is  ended: 

Here  the  illusions  recede,  at  man's  unassailable  centre. 

And  the  nearness  and  f arness  of  God  are  all  that  is  left  him. 


Lo !  as  I  muse,  there  come  on  the  lonely  darkness  and  silence 
Gleams  like  those  of  the  sun  that  reach  his  uttermost  planet, 
Inwardly  dawning  ;  and  faint  and  sweet  as  the  voices  of  waters 
Borne  from  a  sleeping  mountain- vale  on  a  breeze  of  the  midnight, 
Falls  a  message  of  cheer:  "Be  calm,  for  to  doubt  is  to  seek  whom 
None  can  escape,  and  the  soul  is  dulled  with  an  idle  acceptance. 
Crying,  questioning,  stumbling  in  gloom,  thy  pathway  ascendeth; 
They  with  the  folded  hands  at  the  last  relapse  into  strangers. 
Over  thy  head,  behold  !  the  wing  with  its  measureless  shadow 
Spread  against  the  light,  is  the  wing  of  the  Angel  of  Unfaith, 
Chosen  of  God  to  shield  the  eyes  of  men  from  His  glory. 
Thus  through  mellower  twilights  of  doubt  thou  climbest  undazzled, 
Mornward  ever  directed,  and  even  in  wandering  guided. 
God  is  patient  of  souls  that  reach  through  an  endless  creation, 
So  but  His  shadow  be  seen,  but  heard  the  trail  of  His  mantle !  " 

IX 

Who  is  alone  in  this  ?    The  elder  brothers,  immortal, 

Leaned  o'er  the  selfsame  void  and  rose  to  the  same  consolation, 

Human  therein  as  we,  however  diviner  their  message. 

Even  as  the  liquid  soul  of  summer,  pent  in  the  flagon, 

Waits  in  the  darksome  vault  till  we  crave  its  odor  and  sunshine, 

So  in  the  Past  the  words  of  life,  the  voices  eternal. 

Freedom  like  theirs  we  claim,  yet  lovingly  guard  in  the  freedom 

Sympathies  due  to  the  time  and  help  to  the  limited  effort ; 

Thus  with  double  arms  embracing  our  duplicate  being, 

Setting  a  foot  in  either  world,  we  stand  as  the  Masters. 


L'ENVOI  259 

Ah,  but  who  can  arise  so  far,  except  in  his  longing  ? 
Give  nie  thy  hand !  —  the  soft  and  quickening  life  of  thy  pulses 
Spans  the  slackened  spirit  and  lifts  the  eyelids  of  Fancy : 
Doubt  is  of  loneliness  born,  belief  companions  the  lover. 
Ever  from  thee,  as  once  from  youth's  superfluous  forces, 
Courage  and  hope  are  renewed,  the  endless  future  created. 
Out  of  the  season's  hollow  the  sunken  sun  shall  be  lifted, 
Bringing  faith  in  his  beams,  the  green  resurrection  of  Easter, 
After  the  robes  of  death  by  the  angels  of  air  have  been  scattered, 
Climbing  the  heights  of  heaven,  to  stand  supreme  at  his  solstice  ! 


L'ENVOI 

1 
May-time  and  August,  November,  and  over  the  winter  to  May-time, 
Year  after  year,  or  shaken  by  nearness  of  imminent  battle, 
Or  as  remote  from  the  stir  as  an  isle  of  the  sleepy  Pacific, 
Here,  at  least,  I  have  tasted  peace  in  the  pauses  of  labor, 
Rest  as  of  sleep,  the  gradual  growth  of  deliberate  Nature. 
Here,  escaped  from  the  conflict  of  taste,  the  confusion  of  voices 
Heard  in  a  land  where  the  form  of  Art  abides  as  a  stranger, 
Come  to  me  definite  hopes  and  clearer  possible  duties, 
Faith  in  the  steadfast  service,  content  with  tardy  achievement. 
Here,  in  men,  I  have  found  the  elements  working  as  elsewhere, 
Ever  betraying  the  surge  and  swell  of  invisible  currents, 
Which,  from  beneath,  from  the  deepest  bases  of  thought  in  the  people 
Press,  and  heavy  with  change,  and  filled  with  visions  unspoken, 
Bear  us  onward  to  shape  the  formless  face  of  the  Future. 


Now,  if  the  tree  I  planted  for  mine  must  shadow  another's, 

If  the  uncounted  tender  memories,  sown  with  the  seasons, 

Filling  the  webs  of  ivy,  the  grove,  the  terrace  of  roses, 

Clothing  the  lawn  with  unwithering  green,  the  orchard  with  blossoms, 

Singing  a  finer  song  to  the  exquisite  motion  of  waters, 

Breathing  profounder  calm  from  the  dark  Dodonian  oak-trees, 

Now  must  be  lost,  till,  haply,  the  hearts  of  others  renew  them,  — 

Yet  we  have  had  and  enjoyed,  we  have  and  enjoy  them  forever. 

Drops  from  the  bough  the  fruit  that  here  was  sunnily  ripened: 

Other  will  grow  as  well  on  the  westward  slope  of  the  garden. 

Sorrowing  not,  nor  driven  forth  by  the  sword  of  an  angel, 

Nay,  but  borne  by  a  fuller  tide  as  a  ship  from  the  harbor, 

Slowly  out  of  our  eyes  the  pastoral  bliss  of  the  landscape 

Fades,  and  is  dim,  and  sinks  below  the  rim  of  the  ocean. 

in 
Sorrowing  not,  I  have  said:  with  thee  was  the  ceasing  of  sorrow. 
Hope  from  thy  lips  I  have  drawn,  and  subtler  strength  from  thy  spirit, 
Sharer  of  dream  and  of  deed,  inflexible  conscience  of  Beauty ! 
Though  as  a  Grace  thou  art  dear,  as  a  guardian  Muse  thou  art  earnest, 
Walking  with  purer  feet  the  paths  of  song  that  I  venture, 
Side  by  side,  unwearied,  in  cheerful,  encouraging  silence. 
Not  thy  constant  woman's  heart  alone  I  have  wedded  ; 
One  are  we  made  in  patience  and  faith  and  high  aspiration. 
Thus,  at  last,  the  light  of  the  fortunate  age  is  recovered: 
Thus,  wherever  we  wander,  the  shrine  and  the  oracle  follow! 


LARS: 

A  PASTORAL  OF  NORWAY 


TO 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

Through  many  years  my  heart  goes  back, 

Through  checkered  years  of  loss  and  gain, 
To  that  fair  landmark  on  its  track, 
When  first,  beside  the  Merrimack, 
Upon  thy  cottage  roof  I  heard  the  autumn  rain. 

A  hand  that  welcomed  and  that  cheered 

To  one  unknown  didst  thou  extend  ; 
Thou  gavest  hope  to  Song  that  feared ; 
But  now,  by  Time  and  Faith  endeared, 
I  claim  the  sacred  right  to  call  the  Poet,  Friend  ! 

However  Life  the  stream  may  stain, 

From  thy  pure  fountain  drank  my  youth 
The  simple  creed,  the  faith  humane 
In  Good,  that  never  can  be  slain, 
The  prayer  for  inward  Light,  the  search  for  outward  Truth ! 

Like  thee,  I  see  at  last  prevail 

The  sleepless  soul  that  looks  above  ; 
I  hear,  far  off,  the  hymns  that  hail 
The  Victor,  clad  in  heavenly  mail, 
Whose  only  weapons  are  the  eyes  and  voice  of  Love  ! 

Take,  then,  these  olive  leaves  from  me, 

To  mingle  with  thy  brighter  bays ! 
Some  balm  of  peace  and  purity, 
In  them,  may  faintly  breathe  of  thee  ; 
And  take  the  grateful  love,  wherein  I  hide  thy  praise ! 


LARS: 

A   PASTORAL   OF   NORWAY 

BOOK  I 

On  curtained  eyes,  and  bosoms  warm  with  rest, 

On  slackened  fingers  and  unburdened  feet, 

On  limbs  securer  slumber  held  from  toil, 

While  nimble  spirits  of  the  busy  blood 

Renewed  their  suppleness,  yet  filled  the  trance 

With  something  happy  which  was  less  than  dream, 

The  sun  of  Sabbath  rose.     Two  hours,  afar, 

Behind  the  wintry  peaks  of  Justedal, 

Unmarked,  he  climbed  ;  then,  pausing  on  the  crest 

Of  Fille  Fell,  he  gathered  up  his  beams 

Dissolved  in  warmer  blue,  and  showered  them  down 

Between  the  mountains,  through  the  falling  vale, 

On  Ulvik's  cottages  and  orchard  trees. 

And  one  by  one  the  chimneys  breathed  ;  the  sail 

That  loitered  lone  along  the  misty  fiord 

Flashed  like  a  star,  and  filled  with  fresher  wind; 

The  pasturing  steers,  dispersed  on  grassy  slopes, 

Raised  heads  of  wonder  over  hedge  and  wall 

To  call,  unanswered,  the  belated  cows  ; 

And  ears  that  would  not  hear,  or  heard  in  dreams, 

The  lark's  alarum  over  idle  fields, 

And  lids,  still  sweetly  shut,  that  else  unclosed 

At  touch  of  daybreak,  yielded  to  the  day. 

Then,  last  of  all,  among  the  maidens,  met 

To  dip  fresh  faces  in  the  chilly  fount, 

And  smoothen  braids  of  sleep-entangled  hair, 

Came  Brita,  glossy  as  a  mating  bird. 

No  need  had  she  to  stoop  and  wash  awake 

Her  drowsy  senses:  air  and  water  kissed 

A  face  as  bright  and  breathing  as  their  own, 

In  joy  of  life  and  conscious  loveliness. 

If  still  her  mirror's  picture  stayed  with  her, 

A  memory,  whispering  how  the  downcast  lid 

Shaded  the  flushing  fairness  of  her  cheek, 

And  hinting  how  a  straying  lock  relieved 

The  rigid  fashion  of  her  hair,  or  how 

The  curve  of  slightly  parted  lips  became 

Half-sad,  half-smiling,  either  meaning  much 

Or  naught,  as  wilful  humor  might  decide,  — 

Yet  thence  was  born  the  grace  she  could  not  lose : 

Her  beauty,  guarded,  kept  her  beautiful. 


264  LARS 

"  Wilt  soon  be  going,  Brita  ?"  Ragnil  asked  ; 

1 '  And  which  the  way,  —  by  fiord  or  over  fell  ?  " 

' '  Why,  both !  "  another  laughed  ;   "or  else  the  rocks 
Will  split  and  slide  beneath  the  feet  of  Lars, 
Or  Per  will  meet  the  Kraken  !  "     Brita  held 
One  dark-brown  braid  between  her  teeth,  and  wove 
The  silken  twine  and  tassels  through  its  fringe, 
Before  she  spake ;  but  first  she  seemed  to  sigh : 

"  I  will  not  choose  ;  you  shall  not  spoil  my  day ! 
All  paths  are  free  that  lead  across  the  fell ; 
All  wakes  are  free  to  keels  upon  the  fiord, 
And  even  so  my  will :  come  Lars  or  Per, 
Come  Erik,  Anders,  Harald,  Olaf,  Nils, 
Come  sceter-boys,  or  sailors  from  the  sea, 
No  lass  is  bound  to  slight  a  decent  lad, 
Or  walk  behind  him  when  the  way  is  wide." 

" No  way  is  wide  enough  for  three,  I've  heard," 
Said  Ragnil,  "  save  there  be  two  men  that  prop 
A  third,  when  market's  over." 

"  Go  your  ways!" 
Then  Brita  cried  :  "  if  two  or  twelve  should  come, 
I  call  them  not,  nor  do  I  bid  them  go : 
A  friendly  word  is  no  betrothal  ring." 

Then  tossed  she  back  her  braids,  and  with  them  tossed 

Her  wilful  head.     "Why,  take  you  both,  or  all !  " 

She  said,  and  left  them,  adding,  "if  you  can !  " 

With  silent  lips,  nor  cared  what  prudent  fears, 

Old-fashioned  wisdom,  dropped  in  parrot-words, 

Chattered  behind  her  as  she  climbed  the  lane. 

Along  her  path  the  unconverted  bees 

Set  toil  to  music,  and  the  elder-flowers 

Bent  o'er  the  gate  a  snowy  entrance-arch, 

Where,  highest  on  the  slope,  her  cottage  sat. 

Her  bed  of  pinks  there  yielded  to  the  sun 

Its  clove  and  cinnamon  odors;  sheltered  there 

Beneath  the  eaves,  a  rose-tree  nursed  its  buds, 

And  through  the  door,  across  the  dusk  within, 

She  saw  her  grandam  set  the  morning  broth 

And  cut  a  sweeter  loaf.     All  breathed  of  peace, 

Of  old,  indulgent  love,  and  simple  needs, 

Yet  Brita  sighed,  —  then  blushed  because  she  sighed. 

"  Dear  Lord !  "  the  ancient  dame  began,  "  *t  is  just 
The  day,  the  sun,  the  breeze,  the  smell  of  flowers, 
As  fifty  years  ago,  in  Hallingdal, 
When  I,  like  thee,  picked  out  my  smartest  things, 
And  put  them  on,  half  guessing  what  would  hap, 
And  found  my  luck  before  I  took  them  off. 
See  !  thou  shalt  wear  the  brooch,  my  mother's  then, 
And  thine  when  I  am  gone.     Some  luck,  who  knows  ? 
May  still  be  shining  in  the  fair  red  stone." 
So,  from  a  box  that  breathed  of  musky  herbs, 
She  took  the  boss  of  roughly  fashioned  gold, 


LARS  265 

With  garnets  studded :  took,  but  gave  not  yet. 

Some  pleasure  in  the  smooth,  cool  touch  of  gold, 

Or  wine-red  sparkles,  flickering  o'er  the  stones, 

Or  dream  of  other  lingers,  other  lips 

That  kissed  them  for  the  bed  they  rocked  upon 

That  happy  summer  eve  in  Hallingdal, 

Gave  her  slow  heart  its  girlhood's  pulse  again, 

Her  cheek  one  last  leaf  of  its  virgin  rose. 

Oh,  foolishness  of  age !     She  dared  not  say 
What  then  she  felt :  Go,  child,  enjoy  the  bliss 
Of  innocent  woman,  ripe  for  need  of  man, 
And  needing  him  no  less  !     Some  natural  art 
Will  guide  thy  guileless  fancies,  some  pure  voice 
Will  whisper  truth,  and  lead  thee  to  thy  fate  ! 
But,  ruled  by  ancient  habit,  counselled  thus  : 
"  Be  on  thy  guard,  my  Brita  !  men  are  light 
Of  tongue,  and  unto  faces  such  as  thine 
Mean  not  the  half  they  say  :  the  girl  is  prized 
Who  understands  their  ways,  and  holds  them  off 
Till  he  shall  come,  who,  facing  her,  as  she 
And  death  were  one,  pleads  for  his  life  with  her: 
When  such  an  one  thou  meetest,  thou  wilt  know." 

"  Nay,  grandam!  "  Brita  said!  "  I  will  not  hear 

A  voice  so  dreadful -earnest:  I  am  young, 

And  I  can  give  and  take,  not  meaning  much, 

Nor  over-anxious  to  seem  death  to  men  : 

I  like  them  all,  and  they  are  good  to  me. 

I  '11  wear  thy  brooch,  and  may  it  bring  me  luck, 

Not  such  as  thine  was,  as  I  guess  it  was, 

But,  in  the  kirk,  short  sermon,  cheerful  hymn, 

Good  neighbors  on  the  way,  and  for  the  dance 

A  light-foot  partner ! "    With  a  rippling  laugh 

That  brushed  the  surface  of  her  heart,  and  hid 

Whatever  doubt  its  quiet  had  betrayed, 

She  kissed  the  withered  cheek,  and  on  her  breast 

Pinned  the  rough  golden  boss  with  wine-red  stones. 
"  Come,  Brita,  come!"  rang  o'er  the  elder-flowers: 
"  I  come  !  "  she  answered,  threw  her  fleeting  face 

Upon  the  little  mirror,  took  her  bunch 

Of  feathered  pinks,  and  joined  the  lively  group 

Of  Sundayed  lads  and  lasses  in  the  lane. 

They  set  themselves  to  climb  the  stubborn  fell 
By  stony  stairs  that  left  the  fields  below, 
And  ceased,  far  up,  against  the  nearer  blue. 
But  lightly  sprang  the  maids  ;  and  where  the  slides 
Of  ice  ground  smooth  the  slanting  planes  of  rock, 
Strong  arms  drew  up  and  firm  feet  steadied  theirs. 
Here  lent  the  juniper  a  prickly  hand, 
Arid  there  they  grasped  the  heather's  frowsy  hair, 
While  jest  and  banter  made  the  giddy  verge 
Secure  as  orchard-turf  ;  and  none  but  showed 
The  falcon's  eye  that  guides  the  hunter's  foot, 
Till  o'er  their  flushed  and  breathless  faces  struck 


266  LARS 


The  colder  ether  ;  on  the  crest  they  stood,    , 
And  sheltered  vale  and  ever-winding  fiord 
Sank  into  gulfs  of  shadow,  while  afar 
To  eastward  many  a  gleaming  tooth  of  snow 
Cut  the  full  round  of  sky. 

' '  Why,  look  you,  now ! " 
Cried  one :  ' '  the  fiord  is  bare  as  threshing-floor 
When  winter 's  over  :  what 's  become  of  Per  ?  " 
'  And  what  of  Lars  ?  "  asked  Ragnil,  with  a  glance 
At  Brita's  careless  face  ;  "can  he  have  climbed 
The  Evil  Pass,  and  crossed  the  thundering  foss, 
His  nearest  way  ?  "    As  clear  as  blast  of  horn 
There  came  a  cry,  and  on  the  comb  beyond 
They  saw  the  sparkle  of  a  scarlet  vest. 
Then,  like  the  echo  of  a  blast  of  horn, 
A  moment  later,  fainter  and  subdued, 
A  second  cry  ;  and  far  to  left  appeared 
A  form  that  climbed  and  leaped,  and  nearer  strove. 
And  Harald,  Anders  Ericssen,  and  Nils 
Set  their  free  voices  to  accordant  pitch 
And  shouted  one  wild  call  athwart  the  blue, 
Until  it  seemed  to  quiver  :  as  they  ceased 
The  maids  began,  and,  moving  onward,  gave 
Strong  music :  all  the  barren  summits  rang. 

So  from  the  shouts  and  girlish  voices  grew 

The  wayward  chorus  of  a  sceter-song, 

Such  as  around  the  base  of  Skagtolstind 

The  chant  of  summer-  jotun  seems,  when  all 

The  herds  are  resting  and  the  herdsmen  meet ; 

And  while  it  swept  with  swelling,  sinking  waves 

The  crags  and  ledges,  Lars  had  joined  the  band, 

And  from  the  left  came  Per ;  and  Brita  walked 

Between  them  where  the  path  was  broad,  but  when 

It  narrowed  to  such  track  as  tread  the  sheep 

Round  slanting  shoulder  and  o'er  rocky  spur 

To  reach  the  rare,  sweet  herbage,  one  went  close 

Before  her,  one  behind,  and  unto  both 

With  equal  cheer  and  equal  kindliness 

Her  speech  was  given :  so  both  were  glad  of  heart. 

A  herdsman,  woodman,  hunter,  Lars  was  strong, 
Yet  silent  from  his  life  upon  the  hills. 
Beneath  dark  lashes  gleamed  his  darker  eyes 
Like  mountain-tarns  that  take  their  changeless  hue 
From  shadows  of  the  pine :  in  all  his  ways 
He  showed  that  quiet  of  the  upper  world 
A  breath  can  turn  to  tempest,  and  the  force 
Of  rooted  firs  that  slowly  split  the  stone. 
But  Per  was  gay  with  laughter  of  the  seas 
Which  were  his  home :  the  billow  breaking  'blue 
On  the  Norwegian  skerries  flashed  again 
Within  his  sunbright  eyes  ;  and  in  his  tongue, 
Set  to  the  louder,  merrier  key  it  learned 
In  hum  of  rigging,  roar  of  wind  and  tide, 


LARS  267 

The  rhythm  of  ocean  and  its  wilful  change 

Allured  all  hearts  as  ocean  lures  the  land. 

Now  which,  this  daybreak  with  his  yellow  locks, 

Or  yonder  twilight,  calm,  mysterious,  filled 

With  promise  of  its  stars,  shall  turn  the  mind 

Of  the  light  maiden  who  is  neither  fain 

To  win  nor  lose,  since,  were  the  other  not, 

Then  each  were  welcome  ?  —  how  should  maid  decide  ? 

For  that  the  passion  of  the  twain  was  marked, 

And  haply  envied,  and  a  watch  was  set, 

She  would  be  strong :  and,  knowing,  seem  as  though 

She  nothing  knew,  until  occasion  came 

To  bid  her  choose,  or  teach  her  how  to  choose. 

On  each  and  all  the  soberness  of  morn 

Yet  lay,  the  weight  of  hard  reality 

That  even  clogs  the  callow  wings  of  love  ; 

And  now  descending,  where  the  broader  vale 

Showed  farm  on  farm,  and  groves  of  birch  and  oak, 

And  fields  that  shifted  gloss  like  shimmering  silk, 

The  kirk-bells  called  them  through  the  mellow  air, 

Slow-swinging,  till,  as  from  a  censer's  cup 

The  smoke  diffused  makes  all  the  minster  sweet, 

The  peace  they  chimed  pervaded  earth  and  sky. 

As  under  foliage  of  the  lower  land 

The  pathway  led,  more  harmless  fell  the  jest, 

The  laugh  less  frequent  :  then  the  maidens  drew 

Apart,  set  smooth  their  braids,  their  kirtles  shook, 

And  grave,  decorous  as  a  troop  of  nuns, 

Entered  the  little  town.     Ragnil  alone 

And  Anders  Ericssen  together  walked, 

For  twice  already  had  their  banns  been  called. 

Lars  shot  one  glance  at  Brita,  as  to  say  : 

'  Were  thou  and  I  thus  promised,  side  by  side !  " 

Then  looked  away ;  but  Per,  who  kept  as  near 

As  decent  custom  let,  all  softly  sang  : 

Forget  me  thou,  I  shall  remember  still ! " 

That  she  might  hear  him,  and  so  not  forget. 

Thus  onward  to  the  gray  old  kirk  they  moved. 

The  bells  had  ceased  to  chime  :  the  hush  within 

With  holy  shuddering  from  the  organ-bass 

Was  filled,  and  when  it  died  the  prayer  arose. 

Then  came  another  stillness,  as  the  Lord 

Were  near,  or  bent  to  listen  from  afar, 

And  last  the  text ;  but  Brita  found  it  strange. 

Thus  read  the  pastor :  ' '  Set  me  as  a  seal 

Upon  thy  heart,  yea,  set  me  as  a  seal 

Upon  thine  arm  ;  for  love  is  strong  as  death, 

And  jealousy  is  cruel  as  the  grave." 

She  felt  the  garnets  burn  upon  her  breast, 

As  if  all  fervor  of  the  olden  love 

Still  heated  them,  and  fire  of  jealousy, 

And  to  herself  she  thought:  "  Has  any  face 

Looked  on  me  with  a  love  as  strong  as  death  ? 

But  I  am  Life,  and  how  am  I  to  know  ?  " 


268  LARS 


Then,  straightway  weary  of  the  puzzle,  she 
Began  to  wander  with  her  dancing  thoughts 
Out  o'er  the  fell,  and  up  and  down  the  slopes 
Of  sunny  grass,  while  ever  and  anon 
The  preacher's  solemn  voice  struck  through  her  dream, 
Its  sound  a  menace  and  its  sense  unknown. 
Then  she  was  sad,  and  vexed  that  she  was  sad, 
And  vexed  with  them  who  only  could  have  caused 
Her  sadness  :   "  Grandam's  luck,  forsooth  !  "  she  thought: 
"  If  one  were  luck,  why,  two  by  rights  were  more, 
But  two  a  plague,  a  lesser  plague  were  one, 
And  not  a  fortune  ! "     So,  till  service  ceased, 
And  all  arose  when  benediction  came, 
She  mused  with  pettish  thrust  of  under  lip, 
Nor  met  the  yearning  eyes  of  Lars  and  Per. 

The  day's  grave  duty  done,  forth  issued  all, 
Foregathering  with  the  Vossevangen  youth, 
The  girls  of  Graven  and  the  boys  of  Vik, 
Where  under  elms  before  the  guest-house  front 
Stood  tables  brown  with  age :  already  bore 
The  host  his  double-handed  bunch  of  cans 
Fresh-filled  and  foaming  ;  and  the  cry  of  Skoal ! 
Mixed  with  the  clashing  kiss  of  glassy  lips. 
But  when  in  gown  of  black  the  pastor  came, 
All  rose,  respectful,  waiting  for  his  words. 
A  pace  in  front  stood  Anders  Ericssen, 
Undignified  in  bridegroom  dignity, 
Because  too  conscious :  Ragnil  blushed  with  shame, 
And  all  the  maidens  envied  her  the  shame, 
When  reverend  fingers  tapped  her  cheek,  and  he, 
That  good  man,  said  :  "  How  fares  my  bonny  bride  ? 
She  must  not  be  the  last  this  summer  ;  look, 
My  merry  lads,  what  harvest  waits  for  you ! " 
And  on  the  maidens  turned  his  twinkling  eyes, 
That  beamed  a  blessing  with  the  playful  words. 

Then  Lars  slipped  nearer  Brita,  where  she  stood 
Withdrawn  a  little,  underneath  the  trees. 
You  heard  the  pastor,"  said  he  ;  "  would  you  next 
Put  on  the  crown  ?  not  you  the  harvest,  nay, 
The  reaper,  rather  ;  and  the  grain  is  ripe." 
'A  field,"  she  answered,  "may  be  ripe  enough 
When  half  the  heads  are  empty,  and  the  stalks 
Are  choked  with  cockle.     I  've  no  mind  to  reap. 
Indeed,  I  know  not  what  you  mean :  the  speech 
The  pastor  uses  suits  not  you  nor  me." 
She  meant  reproof,  yet  made  reproof  so  sweet 
By  feigned  impatience,  which  betrayed  itself, 
That  Lars  bent  lower,  murmured  with  quick  breath: 
'  Oh,  take  my  meaning,  Brita  !     Give  me  one,  — 
But  one  small  word  to  say  that  you  are  kind, 
But  one  kind  word  to  tell  me  you  are  free, 
And  I  not  wholly  hateful !  "     "  Lars  !  "  she  cried, 
Her  frank,  sweet  sympathy  aroused,  "  not  so! 
As  friendly-kind  as  I  can  be,  I  am, 


LARS  269 

But  free  of  3Tou,  and  all ;  and  that 's  enough! 
You  men  would  walk  across  the  growing  grain, 
And  trample  it  because  it  is  not  ripe 
Before  the  harvest."    Thereupon  she  smiled, 
Sent  him  one  dewy  glance  that  should  have  been 
Defiant,  but  a  promise  seemed  ;  then  turned, 
And  hastening,  almost  brushed  the  breast  of  Per. 
He  caught  her  by  the  hands,  that  Viking's  son, 
Whose  fathers  wore  the  eagle-helm,  and  stood 
With  Frithiof  at  the  court  of  Angantyr, 
Or  followed  fair-haired  Harald  to  the  East, 
Though  fishing  now  but  herring,  cod,  and  bass, 
Not  men  and  merchant-galleys  :  he  was  red 
With  mead,  no  less  than  sun  and  briny  air: 
He  caught  her  by  the  hands,  and  said,  as  one 
Who  gives  command  and  means  to  be  obeyed  : 
"  You  '11  go  to  Ulvik,  Brita,  by  the  fiord  ! 
Bjorn  brings  my  boat;  the  wind  is  off  the  sea, 
But  light  as  from  a  Bergen  lady's  fan : 
Say,  then,  you  '11  go !  " 

The  will  within  his  words 

Struck  Brita  harshly.     For  a  moment  she 

Pondered  refusal,  then,  with  brightening  face 

Turned  suddenly,  and  cried  to  all  the  rest : 
"  How  fine  of  Per  !  we  need  not  climb  the  fell : 

He  '11  bear  us  all  to  Ulvik  by  the  fiord ; 

Bjorn  brings  his  boat ;  the  wind  is  off  the  sea! " 

And  all  the  rest,  with  roaring  skoal  to  Per, 

Struck  hands  upon  the  offer ;  only  he 

For  plan  so  friendly  showed  a  face  too  grim. 

He  set  his  teeth  and  muttered:  "  Caught  this  time, 

But  she  shall  pay  it!  "  till  his  discontent 

Passed,  like  a  sudden  squall  that  tears  the  sea, 

Yet  leaves  a  sun  to  smile  the  billows  down. 

His  jovial  nature,  bred  to  change,  was  swayed 

By  the  swift  consequence  of  Brita's  whim, 

The  grasp  of  hand,  the  clap  of  shoulder,  clink 

Of  brimming  glass,  and  whispers  overheard  - 

Of  "Luck  to  Per,  and  Bjorn,  and  all  the  boys 

That  reap,  but  sow  not,  on  the  rolling  fields  ! " 

And  Brita,  too,  no  sooner  punished  him 

Than  she  relented,  and  would  fain  appease ; 

Whence,  fluttering  to  and  fro,  she  kept  the  plan 

Alive,  yet  made  its  kindness  wholly  Per's  : 

Only,  when  earnestly  to  Lars  she  said  : 
"  You'll  go  with  us  ?"  he  answered  sullenly  : 
"  I  will  not  go  :  my  way  is  o'er  the  fell." 

He  did  not  quit  them  till  they  reached  the  strand, 

And  on  the  stern-deck  and  the  prow  was  piled 

The  bright,  warm  freight;  then  chose  a  dangerous  path, 

A  rocky  ladder  slanting  up  the  crags, 

And  far  aloft  upon  a  foreland  took 

His  seat,  with  chin  upon  his  clenching  hands, 

To  watch  and  muse,iin  love  and  hate,  alone. 


270  LARS 

But  they  slid  off  upon  a  wind  that  filled 

The  sail,  yet  scarcely  heeled  the  boat  a-lee: 

They  seemed  to  rest  above  a  hanging  sky 

'Twixt  shores  that  went  and  shores  that  slowly  came 

In  silence,  and  the  larger  shadows  fell 

From  heaven-high  walls,  a  darker  clearness  in 

The  air  above,  the  firmament  below, 

Crossed  by  the  sparkling  creases  of  the  sea. 

B j  orn  at  the  helm  and  Per  to  watch  the  wind, 

They  scarcely  sailed,  but  soared  as  eagle  soars 

O'er  Gousta's  lonely  peak  with  moveless  plumes, 

That,  level-set,  cut  the  blue  planes  of  air  ; 

And  out  of  stillness  rose  that  sunset  hymn 

Of  Sicily,  the  0  sanctissima  ! 

That  swells  and  fluctuates  like  a  sleepy  wave. 

Thus  they  swam  on  to  where  the  fiord  is  curved 

Around  the  cape,  where  through  a  southward  cleft 

Some  wicked  sprite  sends  down  his  elfish  flaws. 

So  now  it  chanced :  the  vessel  sprang,  and  leaned 

Before  the  sudden  strain  ;  but  Per  and  Bjorn 

Held  the  hard  bit  upon  their  flying  steed, 

And  laughing,  sang  :  "  Out  on  the  billows  blue 

You  needs  must  dance,  and  on  the  billows  blue 

You  sleep,  a  babe,  rocked  by  the  billows  blue  !  " 

As  suddenly  the  gust  was  over  :  then 

Found  Per  a  seat  by  Brita.    ' '  Did  you  fear  ?  " 

He  said  ;  and  she  :  "  Who  fears  that  sails  with  Per  ?  " 

"  Nay  then,"  he  whispered,  "  never  fear  me  more, 
As  twice  to-day  :  why  give  me  all  this  freight, 
When  so  much  less  were  so  much  more  to  me  ?" 

"  Since  when  were  maidens  free  as  fishermen  ? 
Not  since  the  days  of  Brynhild,  I  believe  ; " 
She  answered,  sharply  :  "I  was  fain  to  sail, 
And  place  for  me  meant  place  for  more  beside." 

"  Not  in  my  heart,"  he  said  ;  "it  holds  and  keeps 
Thee  only  ;  thou  canst  not  escape  my  love  ; " 
And  tried  to  take  her  hand:  she  bending  o'er 
The  low,  black  bulwarks,  saw  a  crimson  spark 
Drop  on  the  surface  of  the  pale-green  wave, 
And  sink,  surrounded  by  a  golden  gleam. 

"  Oh,  grandam's  brooch! "  she  cried,  and  started  up, 
Sat  down  again,  and  hid  her  face,  and  wept. 
Some  there  lamented  as  the  loss  were  theirs, 
Some  shook  their  heads  in  ominous  dismay, 
But  all  agreed  that,  save  a  fish  should  bring 
The  jewel  in  its  maw  (and  tales  declared 
The  thing  once  happened),  none  would  see  it  more. 
Said  Guda  Halstensdatter :  "I  should  fear 
An  evil,  had  I  lost  it."     Thorkil  cried: 

"  Be  silent,  Guda!    Loss  is  grief  enough 
For  Brita  :  would  you  frighten  her  as  well  ? 
There's  many  think  that  jewels  go  and  come, 
Having  some  life  or  virtue  of.  their  own 
That  drives  them  from  us  or  that  brings  them  back. 
'T  was  so  with  my  great-grandam's  wedding-ring." 


LARS  271 

Now,  how  was  that  ?  "  all  asked  ;  and  Thorkil  spake  : 

Why,  not  a  year  had  she  been  wedded,  when 

The  ring  was  gone  :  how,  where,  a  mystery. 

It  was  a  bitter  grief,  but  nothing  happed 

Save  losses,  ups  and  downs,  that  come  to  all ; 

Both  took  their  lot  in  patience  and  in  hope, 

And  worked  the  harder  when  the  luck  was  least. 

So  from  the  moorland  and  the  stony  brake 

They  won  fresh  fields  ;  and  now,  when  came  around 

The  thirteenth  harvest,  and  the  grain  was  ripe 

On  that  new  land,  my  grandsire,  then  a  boy, 

One  morn  came  leaping,  shouting,  from  the  field. 

High  in  his  hand  he  held  a  stalk  of  wheat, 

And  round  the  ripened  ear,  between  the  beards, 

Hung,  like  a  miracle,  the  wedding-ring  ! 

And  father  heard  great-grandam  say  it  shone 

So  wonderful,  she  dropped  upon  her  knees  ; 

She  thought  God's  finger  touched  it,  giving  back. 

Who  knows  what  fish  may  pounce  on  Brita's  brooch 

Before  it  reach  the  bottom  of  the  fiord, 

And  then,  what  fisher  net  the  fish  ?  "     Some  there 

Began  to  smile  at  this,  and  Per's  blue  eyes 

Danced  with  a  cheerful  light,  as,  in  the  cove 

Of  Ulvik  entered,  fell  his  sagging  sail. 

No  more  spake  Brita;  homeward  up  the  hill 

She  walked  alone,  sobbing  with  grief  and  dread. 

The  world  goes  round :  the  sun  sets  on  despair, 

The  morrow  makes  it  hope.     Each  little  life 

Thinks  the  great  axle  of  the  universe 

Turns  on  its  fate,  and  finds  impertinence 

In  joy  or  grief  conflicting  with  its  own. 

Yet  fate  is  woven  from  unnoted  threads  ; 

Each  life  is  centred  in  the  life  of  all, 

And  from  the  meanest  root  some  fibre  runs 

Which  chance  or  destiny  may  intertwine 

With  those  that  feed  a  force  or  guiding  thought, 

To  rule  the  world  :  so  goes  the  world  around. 

And  Brita's  loss,  that  made  all  things  seem  dark, 

Was  soon  outgrieved :  came  Anders'  wedding-day 

And  Ragnil's,  and  the  overshining  joy 

Of  these  two  hearts  from  others  drove  the  shade. 

Forth  from  her  home  the  ruddy  bride  advanced, 

Not  fair,  but  made  so  by  her  bridal  bliss, 

The  tall  crown  on  her  brow,  and  in  her  hand 

The  bursting  nosegay  :  Anders,  washed  and  sleeked, 

With  ribbons  on  his  hat,  from  head  to  foot 

Conscious  of  all  he  wore,  each  word  he  spake, 

And  every  action  for  the  day  prescribed, 

Stuck  to  her  side.     It  was  a  trying  time  ; 

But  when  the  strange  truth  was  declared  at  last 

That  they  were  man  and  wife,  so  greeted  with 

The  cries  of  flute  and  fiddle,  crack  of  guns, 

And  tossing  of  the  blossom-brightened  hats, 

They  breathed  more  freely ;  and  the  guests  were  glad 


272  LARS 

That  this  was  over,  since  the  festival 

Might  now  begin,  and  mirth  be  lord  of  all. 

In  Ragnil's  father,  Halfdan's  home,  the  casks 

Of  mead  were  tapped,  the  Dantzig  brandy  served 

In  small  old  glasses,  and  the  platters  broad, 

Heaped  high  with  salmon,  cheese,  and  caviar, 

Tempted  and  soothed  before  the  heavier  meal. 

No  guest  in  duty  failed  ;  and  Per  began  — 

The  liquor's  sting,  the  day's  infection  warm 

Upon  his  blood  —  to  fix  his  sweetheart's  word, 

Before  some  wind  should  blow  it  otherwhere. 

Your  hand,  my  Brita,"  stretching  his,  —  "your  hand 

For  all  the  dances  :  see,  my  heels  are  light ! 

I  have  a  right  to  ask  you  for  amends, 

But  ask  it  as  a  kindness."    "Nay,"  she  said, 

"  You  have  no  right ;  but  I  will  dance  one  dance 
With  you,  as  any  other."     "Will  you  then  ?" 
He  cried,  and  caught  her  sharply  by  the  wrist : 

"I'll  not  be  ' any  other,'  do  you  hear ? 
I  '11  be  the  one,  the  only  one,  whose  foot 
Keeps  time  with  yours,  my  heart  the  tune  thereto  !  " 
Then  shouting  comrades  whirled  him  from  her  side, 
And  Ragnil  called  the  maids,  to  show  her  stores 
Of  fine-spun  linen,  lavendered  and  cool 
In  nutwood  chests,  her  bed  and  canopy 
Painted  with  pictures  of  the  King  and  Queen, 
And  texts  from  Scripture,  o'er  the  pillows  curled 
Where  she  and  Anders  should  that  night  repose. 
'They  shut  the  door  to  keep  the  lads  without, 
Then  shyly  stole  away  ;  and  Brita  found 
Alone,  among  the  garden  bushes,  Lars. 

His  eyes  enlarged  and  brightened  as  she  came  ; 
He  said,  in  tones  whose  heartful  sweetness  made 
Her  pulses  thrill :  "I  will  not  bind  you  yet: 
Dance  only  first  with  me  that  sceter-dance 
You  learned  on  Graafell :  Nils  will  play  the  air. 
Then  take  your  freedom,  favor  whom  you  will. 
I  shall  not  doubt  you,  now  and  evermore." 
"  But,  Lars"  —  she  said,  then  paused  ;  he  would  not  wait 
The  mirthful  guests  drew  near.     "  I  '11  keep  you,  then," 
He  whispered  ;  "till  I  needs  must  let  you  go. 
This  much  will  warm  me  on  the  windy  fells, 
Make  sunshine  of  the  mists,  melt  frost  in  dew, 
And  paint  the  rocks  with  roses."     Could  she  turn 
From  that  brave  face,  those  calm,  confiding  eyes  ? 
Could  she,  in  others'  sight,  reject  the  hand 
Now  leading  to  the  board  ?    If  so,  too  late 
Decision  came,  for  she  had  followed  him, 
And  sat  beside  him  when  the  horns  of  mead 
Made  their  slow  pilgrimage  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
And  while  the  stacks  of  bread  sank  low,  the  haunch 
Of  stall-fed  ox  diminished  to  the  bone, 
Till  multeberries,  Bergen  gingerbread, 
With  wine  of  Spain,  made  daintier  end  of  all. 
Then,  like  a  congress  of  the  blackbirds,  held 


LARS  273 

In  ancient  tree-tops  on  October  eves, 

The  tables  rang  and  clattered  ;  but,  erelong, 

Brisk  bauds  bad  stripped  them  bare,  and,  turning  down 

The  leaves,  made  high-backed  settles  by  the  wall. 

Through  all  the  bustle  and  the  din  were  heard 

The  fiddle-strings  of  Xils,  as  one  by  one 

They  chirped  and  squeaked  in  dolorous  complaint, 

Until  the  bent  ear  and  the  testing  bow 

Found  them  accordant :  then  a  flourish  came 

That  scampered  up  and  down  the  scale,  and  lapsed 

In  one  long  note  that  hovered  like  a  bird, 

Uncertain  where  to  light ;  but  so  not  long : 

It  darted  soon,  a  lark  above  the  fells, 

And  spun  in  eddying  measures.     Here  a  pair, 

And  there  another,  took  the  vacant  floor, 

Then  Lars  and  Brita,  sweeping  in  the  dance 

That  whirled  and  paused,  as  if  a  mountain  gust 

Blew  them  together,  tossed,  and  tore  apart. 

And  ever,  when  the  wild  refrain  came  round, 

Lars  flung  himself  and  sidewards  turned  in  air, 

Yet  missed  no  beat  of  music  when  he  fell. 
"  By  holy  Olaf !  "  gray-haired  Halfdan  cried: 
"  There  's  not  a  trick  we  knew  in  good  old  days, 

But  he  has  caught  it :  so  I  danced  myself." 

Upon  the  sweeping  circles  entered  Per, 

Held  back,  at  first,  and  partially  controlled 

By  them  who  saw  the  current  of  his  wrath, 

And  whitherward  it  set ;  but  now,  when  slacked 

The  fiery  pulses  of  the  dance,  he  broke 

Through  all,  and  rudely  thrust  himself  on  Lars. 
"Your  place  belongs  to  me,"  he  hoarsely  cried,  — 
"  Your  place  and  partner  ! "     "Brita 's  free  to  choose," 

Said  Lars,  "  and  may  be  bidden  ;  but  this  floor 

Is  not  your  deck,  nor  are  you  captain  mine  : 

I  think  your  throat  has  made  your  head  forget." 

Lars  spake  the  truth  that  most  exasperates : 

His  words  were  oil  on  flame,  and  Per  resolved, 

So  swayed  by  reckless  anger,  to  defy 

Then,  once,  and  wholly.     "  Deck  or  not,"  said  he, 
"  You  know  what  right  I  mean  :  you  stand  where  I 

Allow  you  not:  I  warn  you  off  the  field ! " 

Lars  turned  to  Brita  :  "Does  he  speak  for  you  ?" 

She  shook  her  head,  but  what  with  shame  and  fear 

Said  nothing:  ""We  have  danced  our  soeter-dance," 

He  further  spake,  "and  now  I  go:  when  next 

We  meet  at  feast,  I  claim  another  such." 
"  Aye,  claim  it,  claim  ! "  Per  shouted  ;  "  but  you  '11  first    » 

Try  knives  with  me,  for  blood  shall  run  between 

Your  words  and  will:  where  you  go,  I  shall  be." 
"  So  be  it :  bid  your  mother  bring  your  shroud !  " 

Lars  answered ;  and  he  left  the  marriage  house. 

The  folk  of  Ulvik  knew,  from  many  a  tale 

Of  feud  and  fight,  from  still  transmitted  hates 

And  old  Berserker  madness  in  their  blood, 


274  LARS 


What  issue  hung  :  but  whoso  came  between 

Marked  that  the  mediation  dwelt  with  her 

Who  stood  between  :  if  she  would  choose,  why  then, 

The  lover  foiled  forsooth  must  leave  in  peace 

The  lover  favored,  —  further  strife  were  vain. 

But  Lars  was  far  upon  the  windy  heights, 

And  Per  beyond  the  skerries  on  the  sea, 

And  Ragnil  bustling  busy  as  a  wife, 

That  might  have  helped ;  while  those  to  Brita  came, 

More  meddlesome  than  kind,  who  hurt  each  nerve 

They  touched  for  healing.     What  could  she,  but  cry 

In  tears  and  anger :  ' '  Shall  I  seek  them  out, 

Bestow  myself  on  one,  take  pride  for  love, 

And  forfeit  thus  all  later  pride  in  me  ? 

Rather  refuse  them  both,  and  on  myself 

Turn  hate  of  both  :  their  knives,  i'  faith !  were  dull 

Beside  your  cutting  tongues ! "     She  vowed,  indeed, 

In  moonlit  midnights,  when  she  could  not  sleep, 

And  either  window  framed  a  rival  face, 

That  seemed  to  wait,  with  set,  reproachful  eyes, 

To  smile  on  neither,  hold  apart  and  off 

Their  fatal  kindness.     She  repel,  that  drew  ? 

As  if  an  open  rose  could  will  away 

Its  hue  and  scent,  a  lily  arm  its  stem 

With  thorns,  a  daisy  turn  against  the  sun ! 

The  fields  were  reaped  ;  the  longer  shadows  thrown 

From  high  Hardanger  and  the  eastern  range 

Began  to  chill  the  vales :  it  was  the  time 

When  on  the  meadow  by  the  lonely  lake 

Of  Graven,  from  the  regions  round  about 

The  young  men  met  to  hold  their  wrestling-match, 

As  since  the  days  of  Olaf  they  had  done. 

There,  too,  the  maids  came  and  the  older  folk, 

Delighting  in  the  grip  of  strength  and  skill, 

The  strain  of  sinew,  stubbornness  of  joint, 

And  urge  of  meeting  muscles.     All  the  place 

Was  thronged,  and  loud  the  cheers  and  laughter  rang 

When  some  old  champion  from  a  rival  vale 

Bent  before  fresher  arms,  and  from  his  base 

Wrenched  ere  he  knew,  fell  heavily  to  earth. 

Until  the  sun  across  the  fir-trees  laid 

His  lines  of  level  gold,  they  watched  the  bouts  ; 

Then  strayed  by  twos  and  threes  toward  the  sound 

Of  wassail  in  the  houses  and  the  booths. 

And  Brita  with  her  Ulvik  gossips  went. 

Once  only,  when  a  Lserdal  giant  brought 

Sore  grief  upon  the  men  of  Vik,  she  saw 

Or  seemed  to  see,  beyond  the  stormy  ring, 

The  shape  of  Lars ;  but,  scarce  disquieted 

If  it  were  he,  or  if  the  twain  were  there, 

(Since  blood,  she  thought,  must  surely  cool  in  time,) 

She  followed  to  the  house  upon  the  knoll 

Where  ever  came  and  went,  like  bees  about 

Their  hive's  low  doorway,  groups  of  merry  folk. 


LARS  275 

A  mellow  dusk  already  filled  the  room  ; 
The  chairs  were  pushed  aside,  and  on  the  stove, 
As  on  a  throne  of  painted  clay,  sat  Nils. 
Behold  !    Lars  waited  there ;  and  as  she  reached 
The  inner  circle  round  the  dancing-floor 
He  moved  to  meet  her,  and  began  to  say 
'Thanks  for  the  last "*  —  when  from  the  other  side 
Strode  Per. 

The  two  before  her,  face  to  face 
Stared  at  each  other  :  Brita  looked  at  them. 
All  three  were  pale  ;  and  she,  with  faintest  voice, 
Remembering,  counsel  of  the  tongues  unkind, 
Could  only  breathe:  "I  know  not  how  to  choose." 
"No  need  I"  said  Lars :  "I  choose  for  you,"  said  Per. 
Then  both  drew  off  and  threw  aside  their  coats, 
Their  broidered  waistcoats,  and  the  silken  scarves 
About  their  necks  ;  but  Per  growled  "All  !  "  and  made 
His  body  bare  to  where  the  leathern  belt 
Is  clasped  between  the  breast-bone  and  the  hip. 
Lars  did  the  same  ;  then,  setting  tight  the  belts, 
Both  turned  a  little :  the  low  daylight  clad 
Their  forms  with  awful  fairness,  beauty  now 
Of  life,  so  warm  and  ripe  and  glorious,  yet 
So  near  the  beauty  terrible  of  Death. 
All  saw  the  mutual  sign,  and  understood  ; 
And  two  stepped  forth,  two  men  with  grizzled  hair 
And  earnest  faces,  grasped  the  hooks  of  steel 
In  either  s  belt,  and  drew  them  breast  to  breast, 
And  in  the  belts  made  fast  each  other's  hooks. 
An  utter  stillness  on  the  people  fell 
"While  this  was  done :  each  face  was  stern  and  strange 
And  Brita,  powerless  to  turn  her  eyes, 
Heard  herself  cry,  and  started  :   "  Per,  O  Per !  " 

"When  those  two  backward  stepped,  all  saw  the  flash 
Of  knives,  the  lift  of  arms,  the  instant  clench 
Of  hands  that  held  and  hands  that  strove  to  strike  : 
All  heard  the  sound  of  quick  and  hard-drawn  breath, 
And  naught  beside  ;  but  sudden  red  appeared, 
Splashed  on  the  white  of  shoulders  and  of  arms. 
Then,  thighs  entwined,  and  all  the  body's  force 
Called  to  the  mixed  resistance  and  assault, 
They  reeled  and  swayed,  let  go  the  guarding  clutch, 
And  struck  out  madly.     Per  drew  back,  and  aimed 
A  deadly  blow,  but  Lars  embraced  him  close, 
Reached  o'er  his  shoulder  and  from  underneath 
Thrust  upward,  while  upon  his  ribs  the  knife, 
Glancing,  transfixed  the  arm.     A  gasp  was  heard: 
The  struggling  limbs  relaxed ;  and  both,  still  bound 
Together,  fell  upon  the  bloody  floor. 

Some  forward  sprang,  and  loosed,  and  lifted  them 
A  little ;  but  the  head  of  Per  hung  back, 
"With  lips  apart  and  dim  blue  eyes  unshut, 
And  all  the  passion  and  the  pain  were  gone 


276  LARS 

Forever.     ' '  Dead !  "  a  voice  exclaimed  ;  then  she, 

Like  one  who  stands  in  darkness,  till  a  blaze 

Of  blinding  lightning  paints  the  whole  broad  world, 

Saw,  burst  her  stony  trance,  and  with  a  cry 

Of  love  and  grief  and  horror,  threw  herself 

Upon  his  breast,  and  kissed  his  passive  mouth, 

And  loud  lamented :  ' '  Oh,  too  late  I  know 

I  love  thee  best,  my  Per,  my  sweetheart  Per  ! 

Thy  will  was  strong,  thy  ways  were  masterful ; 

I  did  not  guess  that  love  might  so  command  ! 

Thou  wert  my  ruler :  I  resisted  thee, 

But  blindly  :  Oh,  come  back!  — I  will  obey." 

Within  the  breast  of  Lars  the  heart  beat  on, 

Yet  faintly,  as  a  wheel  more  slowly  turns 

When  summer  drouth  has  made  the  streamlet  thin. 

They  staunched  the  gushing  life ;  they  raised  him  up, 

And  sense  came  back  and  cleared  his  clouded  eye 

At  Brita's  voice.     He  tried  to  stretch  his  hand  : 

"  Where  art  thou,  Brita  ?    It  is  time  to  choose  : 
Take  what  is  left  of  him  or  me ! "    He  paused  : 
She  did  not  answer.     Stronger  came  his  voice : 

"  I  think  that  I  shall  live  :  forget  all  this! 
'T  was  not  my  doing,  shall  not  be  again, 
If  only  thou  wilt  love  me  as  I  love." 

"  I  love  thee  ?  "  Brita  cried  ;  "  who  murderest  him 
I  loved  indeed !    Why  should  I  wish  thee  life, 
Except  to  show  thee  I  can  hate  instead  ?" 
A  groan  so  deep,  so  desperate  and  sad 
Came  from  his  throat,  that  men  might  envy  him 
Who  lay  so  silent ;  then  they  bore  him  forth, 
While  others  smoothed  the  comely  limbs  of  Per. 
His  mother,  next,  unrolled  the  decent  shroud 
She  brought  with  her,  as  ancient  custom  bade, 
To  do  him  honor  ;  for  man's  death  he  died, 
Not  shameful  straw-death  of  the  sick  and  old. 


BOOK  II 

Lars  lived,  because  the  life  within  his  frame 

Refused  to  leave  it ;  but  his  heart  was  dead, 

He  thought,  for  nothing  moved  him  any  more. 

He  spake  not  Brita's  name,  and  every  path 

Where  he  had  scattered  fancies  of  the  maid 

Like  seeds  of  flowers,  but  whence,  instead,  had  grown 

Malignant  briers,  to  clog  and  tear  his  feet, 

Was  hated  now  :  so,  all  that  once  seemed  life, 

So  bright  with  power  and  purpose,  rich  in  chance, 

And  dropping  rest  from  every  cloud  of  toil, 

Became  a  weariness  of  empty  days. 

Thus,  not  to  'scape  the  blood-revenge  for  Per 
Which  Thorsten  vowed,  his  brother  :  not  to  shun 
The  tongues  and  eyes  of  censure  or  reproach, 


LARS  277 

Or  spoken  pity,  angering  more  than  these  ; 
But  since  each  rock  upon  the  lonely  fell 
Kept  echoes  of  her  voice,  each  cleft  of  blue 
Where  valleys  wandered  downward  to  the  wave 
Held  shadows  of  her  form,  each  meadow-sod 
Her  footprints,  —  all  the  land  so  filled  with  her, 
Once  hope,  delight,  but  desolation  now,  — 
Forth  must  he  go,  beyond  his  father's  hearth, 
Beyond  the  vales,  be\-ond  the  teeth  of  snow, 
The  shores  and  skerries,  till  the  world  become 
Too  wide  for  knowledge  of  his  evil  fate, 
Too  strange  for  memory  of  his  ruined  love ! 

He  recked  not  where  ;  but  into  passive  moods 

Some  spirit  drops  a  leaven,  to  point  anew 

Men's  aimless  forces.     Was  it  only  chance 

That  now  recalled  a  long-forgotten  tale  ? 

How  Leif,  his  mother's  grandsire,  crossed  the  seas 

To  those  new  lands  the  great  Gustavus  claimed : 

How,  in  The  Key  of  old  Calmar,  their  ship, 

A  trooper  he,  with  Printz  the  Governor, 

Sailed  days  and  weeks ;  the  blue  would  never  turn 

To  shallower  green,  and  landsmen  moped  in  dread, 

Till  shores  grew  up  they  scarce  believed  were  such, 

Low-lying,  fresh,  as  if  the  hand  of  God 

Had  lately  finished  them.     But  farther  on 

The  curving  bay  to  one  broad  river  led, 

Where  cabins  nestled  on  their  rising  banks, 

With  mighty  woods,  and  mellow  intervales, 

Inviting  corn  and  cattle.     Then  rejoiced 

The  Swedish  farmers,  and  were  set  ashore: 

But  on  the  level  isle  of  Tinicum 

Printz  built  a  fort,  and  there  the  trooper,  Leif, 

Abode  three  years :  and  he  was  fain  to  tell, 

When  wounds  and  age  had  crippled  him,  how  fair 

And  fruitful  was  the  land,  how  full  of  sun 

And  bountiful  in  streams,  —  and  pity  't  was 

The  strong  Norse  blood  could  not  have  stocked  it  all ! 

Lars  knew  not  why  these  stories  should  return 
To  haunt  his  gloomy  brain  :  but  it  was  so, 
And  on  the  current  of  his  memory  launched 
His  thought,  and  followed  ;  then  neglected  will 
Awoke,  and  on  the  track  of  thought  embarked, 
And  soon  his  life  was  borne  away  from  all 
It  knew,  and  burst  the  adamantine  ring 
Which  bound  its  world  within  the  greater  world. 
As  one  who,  wandering  by  the  water-side, 
Steps  in  an  empty  boat,  and  sits  him  down, 
Not  knowing  that  his  step  has  loosed  the  chain, 
And  drifts  away,  unwitting,  on  the  tide, 
So  he  was  drifted :  no  farewell  he  spake, 
But  happy  Llvik  and  the  fiord  and  fell 
Passed  from  his  eyes,  and  underneath  his  feet 
The  world  went  round,  until  he  found  himself, 
Like  one  aroused  from  sleep,  upon  the  hills 
That  roll,  the  heavings  of  the  boundless  blue. 


278  LARS 

As  unto  Leif,  his  mother's  grandsire,  so 

To  him  it  seemed  the  blue  would  never  turn 

To  shallower  green,  till  shining  fisher-sails 

Came,  stars  of  land  that  rose  before  the  land  ; 

Then  fresher  shores  and  climbing  river-banks, 

And  broken  woods  and  mellow  intervales, 

With  houses,  corn,  and  cattle.     There,  perchance, 

He  dreamed,  the  memory  of  Leif  might  bide 

Upon  the  level  isle  of  Tinicum, 

Or  farms  of  Swedish  settlers  :  if  't  were  so, 

One  stone  was  laid  whereon  to  build  a  home. 

But  when  the  vessel  at  the  city's  wharf 

Dropped  anchor,  and  the  bright  new  land  was  won, 

The  high  red  houses  and  the  sober  throngs 

"Were  strange  to  him,  and  strange  the  garb  and  speech. 

Awhile  he  lingered  there  ;  until,  outgrown 

The  tongue's  first  blindness  and  the  stranger's  shame, 

His  helpless  craft  was  turned  again  to  use. 

Then  sought  he  countrymen,  and,  finding  now 

Within  the  Swedish  Church  at  Weccacoe 

No  Norse  but  in  the  features,  else  all  changed, 

He  left  and  wandered  down  the  Delaware 

Unto  the  isle  of  Tinicum  ;  and  there 

Of  all  that  fortress  of  the  valiant  Printz 

Some  yellow  bricks  remained.     The  name  of  Leif 

Who  should  remember  ?    Do  we  call  to  mind, 

Years  afterward,  the  clover-head  we  plucked 

Some  morn  of  June,  and  smelled,  and  threw  away  ? 

But  when  we  find  a  life  erased  and  lost 

Beneath  the  multitude's  unsparing  feet,  — 

A  life  so  clearly  beating  yet  for  us 

In  blood  and  memory,  —  comes  a  sad  surprise : 

So  Lars  went  onward,  losing  hope  of  good, 

To  where,  upon  her  hill,  fair  Wilmington 

Looks  to  the  river  over  marshy  meads. 

He  saw  the  low  brick  church,  with  stunted  tower, 

The  portal-arches,  ivied  now  and  old, 

And  passed  the  gate  :  lo  !  there,  the  ancient  stones 

Bore  Norland  names  and  dear,  familiar  words  ! 

It  seemed  the  dead  a  comfort  spake :  he  read, 

Thrusting  the  nettles  and  the  vines  aside, 

And  softly  wept :  he  knew  not  why  he  wept, 

But  here  was  something  in  the  strange  new  land 

That  made  a  home,  though  growing  out  of  graves. 

Led  by  a  faith  that  rest  could  not  be  far. 
Beyond  the  town,  where  deeper  vales  bring  down 
The  winding  brooks  from  Pennsylvanian  hills, 
He  walked :  the  ordered  farms  were  fair  to  see 
And  fair  the  peaceful  houses  :  old  repose 
Mellowed  the  lavish  newness  of  the  land, 
And  sober  toil  gave  everywhere  the  right 
To  simple  pleasures.     As  by  each  he  passed, 
A  spirit  whispered  :  "  No,  not  there  !  "  and  then 
His  sceptic  heart  said :  "Never  anywhere ! " 


LARS  279 

The  sun  was  low,  when,  with  the  valley's  bend, 
There  came  a  change.     Two  willow-fountains  flung 
And  showered  their  leafy  streams  before  a  house 
Of  rusty  stone,  with  chimneys  tall  and  white; 
A  meadow  stretched  below ;  and  dappled  cows, 
Full-fed,  were  waiting  for  their  evening  call. 
The  garden  lay  upon  a  sunny  knoll, 
An  orchard  dark  behind  it,  and  the  barn, 
"With  wide,  warm  wings,  a  giant  mother-bird, 
Seemed  brooding  o'er  its  empty  summer  nest. 
Then  Lars  upon  the  roadside  bank  sat  down, 
For  here  was  peace  that  almost  seemed  despair, 
So  near  his  eyes,  so  distant  from  his  life 
It  lay  :  and  while  he  mused,  a  woman  came 
Forth  from  the  house,  no  servant-maid  more  plain 
In  her  attire,  yet,  as  she  nearer  drew, 
Her  still,  sweet  face,  and  pure,  untroubled  eyes 
Spake  gentle  blood.     A  browner  dove  she  seemed, 
Without  the  shifting  iris  of  the  neck, 
And  when  she  spake  her  voice  was  like  a  dove's, 
Soft,  even-toned,  and  sinking  in  the  heart. 
Lars  could  not  know  that  loss  and  yearning  made 
His  eyes  so  pleading ;  he  but  saw  how  hers 
Bent  on  him  as  some  serious  angel's  might 
Upon  a  child,  strayed  in  the  wilderness. 
She  paused,  and  said  :  "  Thou  seemest  weary,  friend," 
But  he,  instead  of  answer,  clasped  his  hands. 
The  silent  gesture  wrought  upon  her  mind. 
She  marked  the  alien  face  ;  then,  with  a  smile 
That  meant  and  made  excuse  for  needful  words, 
She  said  :   "  Perhaps  thou  dost  not  understand  ?  " 
" I  understand,"  Lars  answered;  "  you  are  good. 
Indeed,  I  'm  weary:  not  in  hands  and  feet, 
But  tired  of  idly  owning  them.     I  see 
A  thousand  fields  where  I  could  take  my  bread 
Nor  stint  the  harvest,  and  a  thousand  roofs 
That  shelter  corners  where  my  head  might  rest, 
Nor  steal  another's  pillow  !  " 

As  to  seek 

The  meaning  of  his  words,  she  mused  a  space. 

In  that  still  land  of  homes,  how  should  she  guess 

What  fancies  haunt  a  homeless  heart  ?    Yet  his 

Was  surely  need  :  so,  presently,  she  spake  : 
14  Work  only  waits,  I  've  thought,  for  willing  hands  ; 

A  meal  and  shelter  for  the  night,  we  give 

To  all  that  ask ;  what  more  is  possible 

Rests  with  my  father."     Lars  arose  and  went 

Beside  her,  where  the  cows  came  loitering  on 

With  udders  swelled,  and  meadow-scented  breath, 

Through  opened  bars  and  up  the  grassy  lane. 
44  Ho,  Star  !  "  and  "Pink! "  he  called  them  coaxingly 

In  soft  Xorse  words :  they  stared  as  if  they  knew. 
14  See,  lady  !"  then  he  cried  :   "  the  honest  things 

Like  him  that  likes  them,  over  all  the  world." 

But  "  Nay,"  she  said,  "  not  4  lady  '  !  —  call  me  Ruth  : 


280  LARS 

My  father's  name  is  Ezra  Mendenhall, 

And  hither  comes  he :  I  will  speak  for  thee/' 

So  Lars  was  sheltered,  and  when  evening  fell, 
And  all,  around  the  clean  and  peaceful  board, 
Kept  the  brief  silence  which  is  fittest  prayer 
Before  the  bread  is  broken,  he  was  filled 
With  something  calm  which  was  akin  to  peace, 
With  something  restless,  which  was  almost  hope. 
The  white-haired  man  with  placid  forehead  sat 
And  faced  him,  grave  as  any  Bergen  judge, 
Yet  kindly;  he  the  stranger's  claim  allowed, 
And  ample  space  for  hunger,  ere  he  spake : 
"  What,  then,  might  be  thy  name  V*    "  My  name  is  Lars, 
The  son  of  Thorsten,  in  the  Norway  land. 
My  father  said  the  blood  of  heathen  kings 
Runs  in  our  veins,  but  we  are  Christian  men, 
Who  work  the  more  because  of  idle  sires, 
And  speak  the  truth,  and  try  to  live  good  lives." 

Lars  ceased,  as  if  a  blow  had  closed  his  mouth, 
But  Ezra  said  :  "The  name  sounds  heathenish, 
Indeed,  yet  hardly  royal ;  blood  is  naught  to  us, 
Yea,  less  than  naught,  or  I,  whose  fathers  served 
The  third  man  Edward,  and  his  kindly  wife, 
Philippa,  loved  the  vanities  of  courts 
And  cast  away  the  birthright  of  their  souls, 
Were  now,  perchance,  a  worldly  popinjay, 
The  Lord  forgetting  and  provoking  Him 
Me  to  forget.     But  this  is  needless  talk  : 
Thy  hands  declare  that  thou  art  bred  to  work; 
Thy  face,  methinks,  is  truthful;  if  thy  life 
Be  good,  I  know  not.     I  can  trust  no  more 
Than  knowledge  justifies,  and  charity 
Bids  us  assume  until  the  knowledge  comes." 

"  No  more  I  ask,"  Lars  answered ;  "simple  ways 
To  me  are  home- ways  :  I  can  learn  to  serve, 
Because,  when  others  served  me,  I  was  just." 

"  Our  ways  are  strange  to  thee,"  said  Ezra;  "  thine 
Unsuitable,  if  here  too  long  retained. 
The  just  in  spirit  find  in  outward  things 
A  voice  and  testimony,  which  may  not 
Be  lightly  changed :  what  say  est  thou  to  this  ?  " 

"  To  change  in  mine  ?    Why,  truly,  't  were  no  change 
To  do  thy  bidding,  yet  to  call  thee  friend ; 
To  use  the  speech  of  brethren,  as  at  home; 
And,  feigning  not  the  faith  that  still  may  part, 
To  bide  in  charity  till  knowledge  comes,  — 
So  much,  without  a  promise,  I  should  give." 

"Thou  speakest  fairly,"  Ezra  said ;  "  to  me 
Is  need  of  labor  less  than  faithful  will, 
But  this  includes  the  other  :  if  thou  stand 


LARS  281 

The  easier  test,  the  greater  then  may  come. 
The  man  who  feels  his  duty  makes  his  own 
The  beasts  he  tends  or  uses,  and  the  fields, 
Though  all  may  be  another's."     "  Then,"  said  Ruth, 
"  My  cows  already  must  belong  to  Lars: 
His  speech  was  strange,  and  yet  they  understood." 

So  Lars  remained.     That  night,  beneath  the  roof, 

His  head  lay  light ;  the  very  wind  that  breathed 

Its  low,  perpetual  wail  among  the  boughs 

Sufficed  to  cheer  him,  and  the  one  dim  star 

That  watched  him  from  the  highest  heaven  of  heavens 

Made  morning  in  his  heart.     Too  soon  passed  off 

The  exalted  mood,  too  soon  his  rich  content 

Was  tarnished  by  the  daily  round  of  toil, 

And  all  things  grown  familiar ;  yet  his  pride, 

That  rose  at  censure  for  each  petty  fault 

Of  ignorance,  supported  while  it  stung. 

And  Ezra  Mendenhall  was  just,  and  Ruth 

Serenely  patient,  sweetly  calm  and  kind  : 

So,  month  by  month,  the  even  days  were  born 

And  died,  the  nights  were  drowned  in  deeper  rest, 

And  fields  and  fences,  streams  and  stately  woods, 

Fashioned  themselves  to  suit  his  newer  life, 

Till  ever  fainter  grew  those  other  forms 

Of  fiord  and  fell,  the  high  Hardanger  range, 

And  Romsdal's  teeth  of  snow.     Yea,  Brita's  eyes 

And  Per's  hot  face  he  learned  to  hold  away, 

Save  when  they  vexed  his  helpless  soul  in  dreams. 

The  land  was  called  Hockessin.     O'er  its  hills, 
High,  wide,  and  fertile,  blew  a  healthy  air: 
There  was  a  homestead  set  wherever  fell 
A  sunward  slope,  and  breathed  its  crystal  vein, 
And  up  beyond  the  woods,  at  crossing  roads, 
The  heart  of  all,  the  ancient  meeting-house ; 
And  Lars  went  thither  on  an  autumn  morn. 
Beside  him  went,  it  happened,  Abner  Cloud, 
A  neighbor;  rigid  in  the  sect,  and  rich, 
And  it  was  rumored  that  he  crossed  the  hill 
To  Ezra's  house,  oftener  than  neighbor-wise. 
This  knew  not  Lars  :  but  Abner's  eye,  he  thought, 
Fell  not  upon  him  as  a  friend's  should  fall, 
And  Abner's  tongue  perplexed  him,  for  its  tone 
Was  harsh  or  sneering  when  his  words  were  fair. 
He  spake  from  every  quarter,  as  a  man 
Who  seeks  a  tender  spot,  or  wound  unhealed, 
And  probes  the  surface  which  he  seems  to  soothe 
Until  some  nerve  betrays  infirmity. 
This,  only,  were  the  two  alone  :  if  Ruth 
Came  near,  his  face  grew  mild  as  curded  milk, 
And  unctuous  kindness  overflowed  his  lips 
Precise  and  thin,  as  who  should  godlier  be  ? 
Perhaps  he  wooed,  but  't  was  a  wooing  strange, 
Lars  fancied,  or  his  heart  were  other  stuff 
Than  those  are  made  of  which  can  bless  or  slay. 


282  LARS 

It  was  a  silent  meeting.     Here  the  men 
And  there  the  women  sat,  the  elder  folk 
Facing  the  younger  from  their  rising  seats, 
With  faces  grave  beneath  the  stiff,  straight  brim 
Or  dusky  bonnet.     They  the  stillness  breathed 
Like  some  high  air  wherein  their  souls  were  free, 
And  on  their  features,  as  on  those  that  guard 
The  drifted  portals  of  Egyptian  fanes, 
Sat  mystery :  the  Spirit  they  obeyed 
By  voice  or  silence,  as  the  influence  fell, 
Was  near  them,  or  their  common  seeking  made 
A  spiritual  Presence,  mightier  than  the  grasp 
Of  each,  possessed  in  reverence  by  all. 
But  o'er  the  soul  of  Lars  there  lay  the  shade 
Of  his  own  strangeness  :  peace  came  not  to  him. 
Awhile  he  idly  watched  the  flies  that  crawled 
Along  the  hard,  bare  pine,  or  marked,  in  front, 
The  close-cut  hair  and  flaring  lobes  of  ears, 
Until  his  mind  turned  on  itself,  and  made 
A  wizard  twilight,  where  the  shapes  of  life 
Shone  forth  and  faded :  subtler  sense  awoke, 
But  dream-like  first,  and  then  the  form  of  Per 
Became  a  living  presence  which  abode  ; 
And  all  the  pain  and  trouble  of  the  past 
Threatened  like  something  evil  yet  to  come. 
At  last,  that  phantasm  of  his  memory  sat 
Beside  him,  and  would  not  be  banished  thence 
By  will  or  prayer  :  he  lifted  up  his  face, 
And  met  the  cold  gray  eyes  of  Abner  Cloud. 

The  man,  thenceforward,  seemed  an  enemy, 
And  Ruth,  he  scarce  knew  why,  but  all  her  ways 
So  cheered  and  soothed,  a  power  to  subjugate 
The  devil  in  his  heart.     But  now  the  leaves 
Flashed  into  glittering  jewels  ere  they  fell ; 
The  pastures  lessened,  and,  when  day  was  done 
Came  quiet  evenings,  bare  of  tale  and  song, 
Such  as  beneath  Norwegian  rafters  shook 
Tired  lids  awake  ;  and  wearisome  to  Lars, 
Till  Ruth,  who  noted,  fetched  the  useless  books 
Of  school-girl  days,  and  portioned  him  his  task, 
Herself  the  teacher.     Oft  would  Ezra  smile 
To  note  her  careful  and  unyielding  sway. 
"  Nay,  now,"  he  said  ;  "I  thought  our  speech  was  plain, 
But  thou  dost  hedge  each  common  phrase  with  thorns, 
Like  something  rare  :  dost  thou  not  make  it  hard  ?  " 
"A  right  foundation,  father,"  she  replied, 
"  Makes  easy  building  :  thus  it  is  in  life. 
I  teach  thee,  Lars,  no  other  than  the  Lord 
Requires  of  all,  through  discipline  that  makes 
His  goodness  hard  until  it  lives  in  us." 
With  paler  cheeks  Lars  turned  him  to  his  task, 
Thus  innocently  smitten ;  but  bis  mind 
Increased  in  knowledge,  till  the  alien  tongue 
Obeyed  the  summons  of  his  thought.     So  toil 
Brought  freedom,  and  the  winter  passed  away. 


LARS  283 

Where  Lars  was  blind,  the  eyes  of  Abner  Cloud 

Saw  more  than  was.     This  school-boy  giant  drew, 

He  fancied,  like  a  rank  and  chance-sown  weed 

Beside  some  wholesome  plant,  the  strength  away 

From  his  desire,  of  old  and  rightful  root. 

"T  was  not  that  Ruth  should  love  the  stranger,  — no! 

But  woman's  interest  is  lightly  caught, 

So  hers  by  Lars,  that  might  have  turned  to  him. 

Had  he  not  worldly  goods,  and  honest  name, 

And  birthright  in  the  meeting  ?     Who  could  weigh 

Unknown  with  these  deserts?  —  but  gentleness 

Is  blind,  and  goodness  ignorant ;  so  he, 

By  malice  made  sagacious,  learned  to  note 

The  large,  strong  veins  that  filled  and  rose,  although 

The  tongue  was  still,  the  clench  of  powerful  hands, 

The  trouble  hiding  in  the  gloomy  eye, 

And  wrought  on  these  by  cunning  words.     But  most 

He  played  with  forms  of  Scandinavian  faith 

In  that  old  time  before  King  Olaf  came, 

And  made  their  huge,  divine  barbarities, 

Their  strength  and  slaughter,  fields  of  frost  and  blood, 

More  hideous.     "  These  are  fables,  thou  wilt  claim," 

It  was  his  wont  to  say  ;  "but  such  must  nurse 

A  people  false  and  cruel." 

Then  would  Lars 
Reply  with  heat  :  " Not  so!  but  honest  folk,  instead, 
Too  frank  to  hide  the  face  of  any  fault, 
And  free  from  all  the  evil  crafts  that  breed 
In  hearts  of  cowards ! " 

Ruth,  it  rarely  chanced, 
Heard  aught  of  this,  but  when  she  heard,  her  voice 
Came  firm  and  clear  :  "  Indeed,  it  is  not  good 
To  drag  those  times  forth  from  their  harmless  graves. 
Their  ignorance  and  wicked  strength  are  dead, 
And  what  of  good  they  knew  was  not  their  own, 
But  ours  as  well :  this  is  our  sole  concern, 
To  feed  the  life  of  goodness  in  ourselves 
And  all.  that  so  the  world  at  last  escape 
The  darkness  of  our  fathers  far  away." 

As  when  some  malady  within  the  frame 
Is  planted,  slowly  tainting  all  the  blood, 
And  underneath  the  seeming  healthy  skin 
In  secret  grows  till  strong  enough  to  smite 
With  rank  disorder,  so  the  strife  increased  ; 
And  Lars  perceived  the  devil  of  his  guilt 
Had  made  a  darkness,  where  he  ambushed  lay 
And  waited  for  his  time.     Against  him  rose 
The  better  knowledge,  breeding  downy  wings 
Of  prayer,  yet  shaken  by  mistrust  and  hate 
At  touch  of  Abner's  malice.     Thus  the  hour, 
The  inevitable,  came. 


284  LARS 

A  Sabbath  morn 
Of  early  spring  lay  lovely  on  the  land. 
Upon  the  bridge  that  to  the  barn's  broad  floor 
Led  from  the  field,  stood  Lars  :  his  eyes  were  fixed 
Upon  his  knife,  and,  as  he  turned  the  blade 
This  way  and  that,  and  with  it  turned  his  thought, 
While  musing  if  't  were  best  to  cover  up 
This  witness,  or  to  master  what  it  told, 
Close  to  the  haft  he  marked  a  splash  of  rust, 
And  shuddered  as  he  held  it  nearer.     ' '  Blood, 
And  doubtless  human ! "  spake  a  wiry  voice, 
And  Abner  Cloud  bent  down  his  head  to  look. 
A  sound  of  waters  filled  the  ears  of  Lars 
And  all  his  flesh  grew  chill :  he  said  no  word. 
"  I  have  thy  history,  now,"  thought  Abner  Cloud, 
And  in  the  pallid  silence  read  but  fear ; 
So  thus  aloud  :  "Thou  art  a  man  of  crime, 
The  proper  offspring  of  the  godless  tribes, 
Who  drank  from  skulls,  and  gnawed  the  very  bones 
Of  them  they  slew.     This  is  thine  instrument, 
And  thou  art  hungering  for  its  bloody  use. 
Say,  hast  thou  ever  eaten  human  flesh  V* 

Then  all  the  landscape,  house,  and  trees,  and  hills, 

Before  the  eyes  of  Lars,  burned  suddenly 

In  crimson  fire :  the  roaring  of  his  ears 

Became  a  thunder,  and  his  throat  was  brass. 

Yet  one  wild  pang  of  deadly  fear  of  self 

Shot  through  his  heart,  and  with  a  mighty  cry 

Of  mingled  rage,  resistance,  and  appeal, 

He  flung  his  arms  towards  heaven,  and  hurled  afar 

The  fatal  knife.     This  saw  not  Abner  Cloud : 

But  death  he  saw  within  those  dreadful  eyes, 

And  turned  and  fled.     Behind  him  bounded  Lars, 

The  man  cast  off,  the  wild  beast  only  left, 

The  primal  savage,  who  is  born  anew 

In  every  child.     Not  long  had  been  the  race, 

But  Ezra  Mendenhall,  approaching,  saw 

The  danger,  swiftly  thrust  himself  between, 

And  Lars,  whose  passion-blinded  eyes  beheld 

An  obstacle,  that  only,  struck  him  down. 

Then  deadly  hands  he  dashed  at  Abner's  throat, 

But  they  were  grasped :  he  heard  the  cry  of  Ruth, 

Not  what  she  said  :  he  heard  her  voice,  and  stood. 

She  knew  not  what  she  said  :  she  only  saw 
The  wide  and  glaring  eyes  suffused  with  blood, 
The  stiff -drawn  lips  that,  parting,  showed  the  teeth, 
And  on  the  temples  every  standing  vein 
That  throbbed,  dumb  voices  of  destroying  wrath. 
The  soul  that  filled  her  told  her  what  to  do : 
She  dropped  his  hands  and  softly  laid  her  own 
Upon  his  brow,  then  looked  the  devil  down 
Within  his  eyes,  till  Lars  was  there  again. 
Erelong  he  trembled,  while,  o'er  all  his  frame 
A  sweat  of  struggle  and  of  agony 


LARS  285 

Brake  forth,  and  from  his  throat  a  husky  sob. 
He  tried  to  speak,  but  the  dry  tongue  refused ; 
He  could  but  groan,  and  staggered  toward  the  house, 
As  walks  a  man  who  neither  hears  nor  sees. 

With  bloodless  lips  of  fear  gasped  Abner  Cloud: 
"  A  murderer  !  "  as  Ezra  Mendenhall 

Came,  stunned,  and  with  a  wound  across  his  brow. 
"  Oh,  never!"  Ruth  exclaimed;  but  she  was  pale. 

She  bound  her  father's  head ;  she  gave  him  drink ; 

She  steadied  him  with  arms  of  gentle  strength, 

Then  spake  to  Abner:  "  Now,  I  pray  thee,  go  ! " 

No  more  :  but  such  was  her  authority 

Of  speech  and  glance,  the  spirit  and  the  power, 

That  he  obeyed,  and  turned,  and  left  the  place. 

Then  Ezra's  strength  came  back;  and  "  Ruth,"  he  said, 
"  I  see  thou  hast  a  purpose :  let  me  know !  " 
"  I  only  feel,"  she  answered,  '•  that  a  soul 

Is  here  in  peril,  but  the  way  to  help 

Is  not  made  plain:  the  knowledge  will  be  given." 
"  I  have  no  fear  for  thee,  my  daughter:  do 

What  seemeth  good,  and  strongly  brought  upon 

Thy  mind  by  plain  direction  of  the  Lord ! 

There  is  a  power  of  evil  in  the  man 

That  might  be  purged,  if  once  he  saw  the  light." 

She  left  him,  seated  in  the  sunny  porch : 
Within  the  house  and  orchard  all  was  still, 
Nor  found  she  Lars,  at  first.     But  she  was  driven 
By  that  vague  purpose  which  was  void  of  form, 
And  climbed,  at  last,  to  where  his  chamber  lay, 
Beneath  the  rafters.     On  the  topmost  step 
He  sat,  his  forehead  bent  upon  his  knees, 
A  bundle  at  his  side,  as  when  he  came. 
He  raised  his  head :  Ruth  saw  his  eyes  were  dull , 
His  features  cold  and  haggard,  and  his  voice, 
When  thus  he  spake  to  her,  was  hoarse  and  strange : 
"  Thou  need' st  not  tell  me  :  I  already  know. 
I  hope  thou  thinkest  it  is  hard  to  me. 
I  am  a  man  of  violence  and  blood, 
Not  meet  for  thy  pure  company ;  and  now 
When  unto  peaceful  ways  my  heart  inclined, 
And  thou  hadst  shown  the  loveliness  of  good, 
My  guilt,  not  yet  atoned,  brings  other  guilt 
To  drive  me  forth:  and  this  disgrace  is  worst." 

Ruth  stood  below  him  where  he  sat :  she  laid 
One  hand  upon  the  hand  upon  his  knee, 
And  spake  :  "  I  judge  thee  not;  I  cannot  know 
What  grievous  loss  or  strong  temptation  wrought ; 
But  if,  indeed,  to  good  and  peaceful  ways 
Thy  heart  inclines,  canst  thou  not  wrestle  with 
The  Adversary  ?    This  knowledge  of  thy  guilt 
Is  half -repentance  :  whole  would  make  thee  sound." 
"  And  then  —  and  then  "  —  his  natural  voice  returned ; 


286  LARS 

"  Then  —  pardon  ?  "     "  Pardon,  now,  from  me  and  him, 
My  father,  —  for  I  know  his  perfect  heart,  — 
Thou  hast ;  but  couldst  thou  turn  thy  dreadful  strength 
That  so  it  lift,  and  change,  and  chasten  thee  ?  " 

"  If  I  but  could  !  "  —  he  cried,  and  bowed  again 
His  forehead.     "Wait  !"  she  whispered,  left  him  there, 
And  sought  her  father. 

Now,  when  Ezra  heard 
All  this  repeated,  for  a  space  he  sat 
In  earnest  meditation.    "  Bid  him  come ! " 
He  said,  at  last,  and  Ruth  brought  Lars  to  him. 
Upon  the  doubting  and  the  suffering  face 
The  old  man  gazed ;  then  "  Put  thy  bundle  by ! " 
Came  from  his  lips  ;  ' '  thou  shalt  not  leave,  to-day. 
Thy  hands  have  done  thee  hurt ;  if  thou  art  just, 
One  service  do  thyself,  in  following  me. 
Come  with  us  to  the  meeting  :  there  the  Lord 
Down  through  the  silence  of  fraternal  souls 
May  reach  His  hand.     We  cannot  guess  His  ways ; 
Only  so  much  the  inward  Voice  declares." 

But  little  else  was  said  :  upon  them  lay 

The  shadow  of  an  unknown  past,  the  weight 

Of  present  trouble,  the  uncertainty 

Of  what  should  come  ;  yet  o'er  the  soul  of  Ruth 

Hung  something  happier  than  she  dared  to  feel, 

And  Lars,  in  silence,  with  submissive  feet 

Followed,  as  one  who  in  a  land  of  mist 

Feels  one  side  warmer,  where  the  sun  must  be. 

Then,  parted  ere  they  reached  the  separate  doors, 

Lars  went  with  Ezra.     Abner  Cloud,  within, 

Beheld  them  enter,  and  he  marvelled  much 

Such  things  could  be.     Straightway  the  highest  seat 

Took  Ezra,  where  the  low  partition-boards 

Sundered  the  men  and, women.     There  alone 

Sat  they  whom  most  the  Spirit  visited, 

And  spake  through  them,  and  gave  authority. 

Then  silence  fell;  how  long,  Lars  could  not  know, 
Nor  Ruth,  for  each  was  in  a  trance  of  soul, 
Till  Ezra  rose.     His  words,  at  first,  were  few 
And  broken,  and  they  trembled  on  his  lips ; 
But  soon  the  power  and  full  conviction  came, 
And  then,  as  with  Ezekiel's  trumpet- voice 
He  spake:  "  Lo!  many  vessels  hath  the  Lord 
Set  by  the  fount  of  Evil  in  our  hearts. 
Here  envy  and  false-witness  catch  the  green, 
There  pride  the  purple,  lust  the  ruddy  stream  : 
But  into  anger  runs  the  natural  blood, 
And  flows  the  faster  as  't  is  tapped  the  more. 
Here  lies  the  som'ce  :  the  conquest  here  begins, 
Then  meekness  comes,  good-will,  and  purity. 
Let  whoso  weigh,  when  his  offence  is  sore, 
The  Lord's  offences,  and  his  patience  mete, 
Though  myriads  less  in  measure,  by  the  Lord's  ! 


LARS  287 

This  yoke  is  easy,  if  in  love  ye  bear. 

For  none,  the  lowest,  rather  hates  than  loves  ; 

But  Love  is  shy,  and  Hate  delights  to  show 

A  brazen  forehead  ;  't  is  the  noblest  sign 

Of  courage,  and  the  rarest,  to  reveal 

The  tender  evidence  of  brotherhood. 

With  one  this  sin  is  born,  with  other,  that ; 

Who  shall  compare  them  ?  —  either  sin  is  dark, 

But  one  redeeming  Light  is  over  both. 

The  Evil  that  assails  resist  not  ye 

With  equal  evil  !  —  else  ye  change  to  man 

The  Lord  within,  whom  ye  should  glorify 

By  words  that  prove  Him,  deeds  that  bless  like  Him  ! 

What  spake  the  patient  and  the  holy  Christ  ? 

Unto  thy  brother  first  be  reconciled, 

Then  bring  thy  gift !  and  further :  Bless  ye  them 

That  curse  you,  and  do  good  to  them  that  hate 

And  persecute,  that  so  the  children  ye  may  be 

Of  Him,  the  Father.     Yea,  His  perfect  love 

Renewed  in  us,  and  of  our  struggles  born, 

Gives,  even  on  earth,  His  pure,  abiding  peace. 

Behold,  these  words  I  speak  are  nothing  new, 

But  they  are  burned  with  fire  upon  my  mind 

To  help  —  the  Lord  permit  that  they  may  save!" 

Therewith  he  laid  his  hat  aside,  and  all 

Beheld  the  purple  welt  across  his  brow, 

And  marvelled.     Thus  he  prayed:  "Our  God  and  Lord 

And  Father,  unto  whom  our  secret  sins 

Lie  bare  and  scarlet,  turn  aside  from  them 

In  holy  pity,  search  the  tangled  heart 

And  breathe  Thy  life  upon  its  seeds  of  good  ! 

Thou  leavest  no  one  wholly  dark  :  Thou  giv'st 

The  hope  and  yearning  where  the  will  is  weak, 

And  unto  all  the  blessed  strength  of  love. 

So  give  to  him,  and  even  withhold  from  me 

Thy  gifts  designed,  that  he  receive  the  more: 

Give  love  that  pardons,  prayer  that  purifies, 

And  saintly  courage  that  can  suffer  wrong, 

For  these  beget  Thy  peace,  and  keep  Thee  near!" 

He  ceased ;  all  hearts  were  stirred ;  and  suddenly 
Amid  the  younger  members  Lars  arose, 
Unconscious  of  the  tears  upon  his  face, 
And  scarcely  audible  :  "  Oh,  brethren  here, 
He  prayed  for  my  sake,  for  my  sake  pray  ye  ! 
I  am  a  sinful  man :  I  do  repent. 
I  see  the  truth,  but  in  my  heart  the  lamp 
Is  barely  lighted,  any  wind  may  quench. 
Bear  with  me  still,  be  helpful,  that  I  live!  " 
Then  all  not  so  much  wondered  but  they  felt 
The  man's  most  earnest  need  ;  and  many  a  voice 
Responsive  murmured:  "Yea,  I  will!  "  and  some, 
Whose  brows  were  tombstones  over  passions  slain, 
When  meeting  broke  came  up  and  took  his  hand. 


288  LARS 

The  three  walked  home  in  silence,  but  to  Lars 

The  mist  had  lifted,  and  around  him  fell 

A  bath  of  light ;  and  dimly  spread  before 

His  feet  the  sweetness  of  a  purer  world. 

When  Ezra,  that  diviner  virtue  spent 

Which  held  him  up,  grew  faint  upon  the  road, 

The  arm  of  Lars  became  a  strength  to  him  ; 

Yet  all  he  said,  before  the  evening  fell, 

Was  :  "  Gird  thy  loins,  my  friend,  the  way  is  long 

And  wearisome  :  haste  not,  but  never  rest ! " 

"  I  will  not  close  mine  eyes,"  said  Lars  to  Ruth, 
And  laid  aside  the  book,  No  Gross,  No  Crown, 
She  gave  him  as  a  comfort  and  a  help  ; 

"  Till  thou  hast  heard  the  tale  I  have  to  tell. 
Thou  speakest  truth,  the  knowledge  of  my  sin 
Is  half-repentance,  yet  the  knowledge  burns 
Like  fire  in  ashes  till  it  be  confessed. 
Revoke  thy  pardon,  if  it  must  be  so, 
When  all  is  told :  yea,  speak  to  me  no  more, 
But  I  must  speak !  "     So  he  began,  and  spared 
No  circumstance  of  love,  and  hate,  and  crime, 
The  songs  and  dances  which  the  Friends  forbid, 
The  bloody  customs  and  the  cries  profane, 
Till  all  lay  bare  and  horrible.     And  Ruth 
Grew  pale  and  flushed  by  turns,  and  often  wept, 
And,  when  he  ceased,  was  silent.    "  Now,  farewell!" 
He  would  have  said,  when  she  looked  up  and  spake  : 

u  Thy  words  have  shaken  me  :  we  read  such  tales, 
Nor  comprehend,  so  distant  and  obscure  : 
Thou  makest  manifest  the  living  truth. 
Save  thee,  I  never  knew  a  man  of  blood  : 
Thou  shouldst  be  wicked,  and  my  heart  declares 
Thy  gentleness:  ah,  feeling  all  thy  sin, 
Can  I  condemn  thee,  nor  myself  condemn  ? 
Thy  burden,  thus,  is  laid  upon  me.     Pray 
For  power  and  patience,  pray  for  victory  ! 
Then  falls  the  burden,  and  my  soul  is  glad." 

Lars  saw  what  he  had  done.     His  limbs  unstrung 

Gave  way,  and  softly  on  his  knees  he  sank, 

And  all  the  passion  of  his  nature  bore 

His  yearning  upward,  till  in  faith  it  died. 

He  rose,  at  last;  his  face  was  calm  and  strong: 

Ruth  smiled,  and  then  they  parted  for  the  night. 

Yet  Ezra's  words  were  true :  the  way  was  long 

And  wearisome.     The  better  will  was  there, 

But  not  the  trust  in  self ;  for,  still  beside 

Those  pleasant  regions  opening  on  his  soul, 

Beat  the  unyielding  blood,  as  beats  afar 

The  vein  of  lightning  in  a  summer  cloud. 

And,  as  in  each  severe  community 

Of  interests  circumscribed,  where  all  is  known 

And  roughly  handled  till  opinions  join, 

So,  here  were  those  who  kindly  turned  to  Lars, 


LARS  289 

And  those  who  doubted,  or  declared  him  false. 

In  this  probation,  Ruth  became  his  stay  : 

She  knew  and  turned  not,  knew  and  yet  believed 

As  did  no  other,  — hoping  more  than  he. 

Meanwhile  the  summer  and  the  harvest  came. 

One  afternoon,  within  the  orchard,  Ruth 

Gathered  the  first  sweet  apples  of  the  year, 

That  give  such  pleasure  by  their  painted  cheeks 

And  healthy  odor.     Little  breezes  shook 

The  interwoven  flecks  of  sun  and  shade, 

O'er  all  the  tufted  carpet  of  the  grass ; 

The  birds  sang  near  her,  and  beyond  the  hedge, 

Where  stretched  the  oat-field  broad  along  the  hill, 

Were  harvest  voices,  broken  wafts  of  sound, 

That  brought  no  words.     Then  something  made  her  start ; 

She  gazed  and  waited  :  o'er  the  thorny  wall 

Lars  leaped,  or  seemed  to  fly,  and  ran  to  her, 

His  features  troubled  and  his  hands  outstretched. 
"  O  Ruth!"  he  cried  ;  "  I  pray  thee,  take  my  hands! 

This  power  I  have,  at  last :  I  can  refrain 

Till  help  be1  sought,  the  help  that  dwells  in  thee." 

She  took  his  hands,  and  soon,  in  kissing  palms, 

His  violent  pulses  learned  the  beat  of  hers. 

Sweet  warmth  o'erspread  his  frame  ;  he  saw  her  face, 

And  how  the  cheeks  flushed  and  the  eyelids  fell 

Beneath  his  gaze,  and  all  at  once  the  truth 

Beat  fast  and  eager  in  the  palms  of  both. 
"  Take  not  away ;  "  he  cried :  "now,  nevermore, 

Thy  hands !     O  Ruth,  my  saving  angel,  give 

Thyself  to  me,  and  let  our  lives  be  one  ! 

I  cannot  spare  thee  :  heart  and  soul  alike 

Have  need  of  thee,  and  seem  to  cry  aloud : 
'  Lo!  faith  and  love  and  holiness  are  one! '  " 

But  who  shall  paint  the  beauty  of  her  eyes 

When  they  unveiled,  and  softly  clung  to  his, 

The  while  she  spake  :  "  I  think  I  loved  thee  first 

When  first  I  saw  thee,  and  I  give  my  life, 

In  perfect  trust  and  faith,  to  these  thy  hands." 
"  The  fight  is  fought,"  said  Lars  ;  "  so  blest  by  thee, 

The  strength  of  darkness  and  temptation  dies. 

If  now  the  light  must  reach  me  through  thy  soul, 

It  is  not  clouded :  clearer  were  too  keen, 

Too  awful  in  its  purity,  for  man." 

So  into  joy  revolved  the  doubtful  year, 
And,  ere  it  closed,  the  gentle  fold  of  Friends 
Sheltered  another  member,  even  Lars. 
The  evidence  of  faith,  in  words  and  ways, 
Could  none  reject,  and  thus  opinions  joined, 
And  that  grew  natural  which  was  marvel  first. 
Then  followed  soon,  since  Ezra  willed  it  so, 
Seeing  that  twofold  duty  guided  Ruth, 
The  second  marvel,  bitterness  to  one 
Who  blamed  his  haste,  nor  felt  how  free  is  fate, 
Whose  sweeter  name  is  love,  of  will  or  plan. 
And  all  the  countrv-side  assembled  there, 


290  LARS 

One  winter  Sabbath,  when  in  snow  and  sky 

The  colors  of  transfiguration  shone, 

Within  the  meeting-house.     There  Ruth  and  Lars 

Together  sat  upon  the  women's  side, 

And  when  the  peace  was  perfect,  they  arose. 

He  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  spake  these  words, 

As  ordered  :  "  In  the  presence  of  the  Lord 

And  this  assembly,  by  the  hand  I  take 

Ruth  Mendenhall,  and  promise  unto  her, 

Divine  assistance  blessing  me,  to  be 

A  loving  and  faithful  husband,  even 

Till  death  shall  separate  us."    Then  spake  Ruth 

The  same  sweet  words ;  and  so  the  twain  were  one. 


BOOK  III 

Love's  history,  as  Life's,  is  ended  not 

By  marriage  :  though  the  ignorant  Paradise 

May  then  be  lost,  the  world  of  knowledge  waits, 

With  ample  opportunities,  to  mould 

Young  Eve  and  Adam  into  wife  and  man. 

Some  grace  of  sentiment  expires,  yet  here 

The  nobler  poetry  of  life  begins  : 

The  squire  is  knight,  the  novice  takes  the  vow, 

Old  service  falls,  new  powers  and  duties  join,      » 

And  that  high  Beauty,  which  is  crown  of  all, 

No  more  a  lightsome  maid,  with  tresses  free 

And  mantle  floating  from  the  bosom  bare, 

Confronts  us  now  like  holy  Barbara, 

As  Palma  drew,  or  she,  Our  Lady,  born 

On  Melos,  type  of  perfect  growth  and  pure.   I 

So  Lars  and  Ruth  beside  each  other  learned 
What  neither,  left  unwedded,  could  have  won  : 
He  how  reliant  and  how  fond  the  heart 
Whose  love  seemed  almost  pity,  she  how  firm 
And  masterful  the  nature,  which  appealed 
There  for  support  where  hers  had  felt  no  strain ; 
And  both,  how  solemn,  sweet,  and  wonderful 
The  life  of  man.     Their  life,  indeed,  was  still, 
Too  still  for  aught  save  blessing,  for  a  time. 
All  things  were  ordered :  plenty  in  the  house 
And  fruitf ulness  of  field  and  meadow  made 
Light  labor,  and  the  people  came  and  went, 
According  to  their  old  and  friendly  ways. 
Within  the  meeting-house  upon  the  hill 
Now  Ezra  oftener  spake,  and  sometimes  Lars, 
Fain  to  obey  the  spirit  which  impelled  ; 
And  what  of  customed  phrase  they  missed,  or  tone, 
Unlike  their  measured  chant,  did  he  supply 
With  words  that  bore  a  message  to  the  heart. 

All  this  might  seem  sufficient ;  yet  to  Ruth 
Was  still  unrest,  where,  unto  shallow  eyes 


LARS  291 

Dwelt  peace  ;  she  felt  the  uneasy  soul  of  Lars, 
And  waited,  till  his  own  good  time  should  come. 
Yea,  verily,  he  was  happy :  could  she  doubt 
The  signs  in  him  that  spake  the  same  in  her  ? 
Yea,  he  was  happy  :  every  day  proclaimed 
The  freshness  of  a  blessing  rebestowed, 
The  conscious  gift,  unworn  by  time  or  use, 
And  this  was  sweet  to  see  ;  yet  he  betrayed 
That  wavering  will,  the  opposite  of  faith, 
"Which  comes  of  duty  known  and  not  performed. 
It  seemed  his  lines  of  life  were  cast  in  peace, 
In  green  Hockessin,  where  Lars  Thorstensen, 
A  sound  that  echoed  of  Norwegian  shores, 
Became  Friend  Thurston :  all  things  there  conspired 
To  blot  the  Past,  but  in  his  soul  it  lived. 

Then,  as  his  thoughts  went  back,  his  tongue  revealed  : 

He  spake  of  winding  fiord  and  windy  fell, 

Of  Ulvik's  cottages  and  Graven's  lake, 

And  all  the  moving  features  of  a  life 

So  strange  to  Ruth ;  till  she  made  bold  to  break, 

Through  playful  chiding,  what  was  grave  surmise : 
"I  fear  me,  Lars,  that  thou  art  sick  for  home. 

Thy  love  is  with  me  and  thy  memory  far : 

Thou  seest  with  half  thy  sight ;  and  in  thy  dreams 

I  hear  thee  murmur  in  thine  other  tongue, 

So  soft  and  strange,  so  good,  I  cannot  doubt, 

If  I  but  knew  it ;  but  thy  dreams  are  safe." 
**  Nay,  wife,"  he  said  ;  "  misunderstand  them  not! 

For  dreams  hold  up  before  the  soul,  released 

From  worldly  business,  pictures  of  itself, 

And  in  confused  and  mystic  parables 

Foreshadow  what  it  seeks.     I  do  confess 

I  love  Old  Norway's  bleak,  tremendous  hills, 

Where  winter  sits,  and  sees  the  summer  burn 

In  valleys  deeper  than  yon  cloud  is  high: 

I  love  the  ocean-arms  that  gleam  and  foam 

So  far  within  the  bosom  of  the  land  : 

It  is  not  that.     I  do  confess  to  thee 

I  love  the  frank,  brave  habit  of  the  folk, 

The  hearts  unspoiled,  though  fed  from  ruder  times 

And  filled  with  angry  blood:  I  love  the  tales 

That  taught,  the  ancient  songs  that  cradled  me, 

The  tongue  my  mother  spake,  unto  the  Lord 

As  sweet  as  thine  upon  the  lips  of  prayer : 

It  is  not  that." 

Then  he  perused  her  face 

Full  earnestly,  and  drew  a  deeper  breath. 
"  My  wife,  my  Ruth,"  his  words  came,  low  yet  firm  ; 
"  Thou  knowest  of  one  who  brake  a  precious  box 

Of  ointment,  and  refreshed  the  weary  feet 

Of  Him  who  pardoned  her.     But,  had  He  given 

Not  pardon  only,  had  He  stretched  His  arm 

And  plucked,  as  from  the  vine  of  Paradise, 

All  blessing  and  all  bounty  and  all  good, 

What  then  were  she  that  idly  took  and  used  ?  " 


292  LARS 

"  I  read  tliy  meaning,"  answered  Ruth  ;  "  speak  on ! " 
"  Am  I  not  he  that  idly  uses  ?    Are  there  not 
Here  many  reapers,  there  a  wasting  field  ? 
In  them  the  fierce  inheritance  of  blood 
I  overcame,  is  mighty  still  to  slay ; 
For  ancient  custom  is  a  ring  of  steel 
They  know  not  how  to  snap.     By  day  and  night 
A  powerful  spirit  calls  me :  '  Go  to  them  ! ' 
What  should  mine  answer  to  the  spirit  be  ?  " 

If  there  were  aught  of  struggle  in  her  heart, 
She  hid  the  signs.     A  little  pale  her  cheek, 
But  with  untrembling  eyelids  she  upraised 
Her  face  to  his,  and  took  him  by  the  hands : 
"  Thy  Lord  is  mine  :  what  should  I  say  to  thee, 
Except  what  she,  whose  name  I  bear,  ere  yet 
She  went  to  glean  in  Bethlehem's  harvest-field, 
Said  to  Naomi  :  '  Nay,  entreat  me  not 
To  leave  thee,  or  return  from  following  thee  ? ' 
Should  not  thy  people,  then,  be  mine, 
As  mine  are  made  thine  own  ?    I  will  not  fail :  He  calls 
On  both  of  us  who  gives  thee  this  command." 

So  Ruth,  erelong,  detached  her  coming  life 
From  all  its  past,  until  each  well-known  thing 
No  more  was  sure  or  needful,  to  her  mind. 
Her  neighbors,  even,  seemed  to  come  and  go 
Like  half -existences ;  her  days,  as  well, 
Were  clad  with  dream  ;  she  understood  the  words, 
"  I  but  sojourn  among  you  for  a  time," 
And,  from  the  duties  which  were  habits,  turned 
To  brood  o'er  those  unknown,  awaiting  her. 

But  Ezra,  when  he  heard  their  purpose,  spake 
"  Because  this  thing  is  very  hard  to  me, 
I  dare  not  preach  against  it ;  but  I  doubt, 
Being  acquainted  with  the  heart  of  man. 
'T  is  one  thing,  Lars,  to  build  thy  virtue  here, 
Where  others  urge  the  better  will :  but  there, 
Alone,  persuaded,  ridiculed,  assailed, 
Couldst  thou  resist,  yet  love  them  ?    Nay,  I  know 
Thy  power  and  conscience:  Try  them  not  too  soon; 
Is  all  I  ask.     See,  I  am  full  of  years, 
And  thou,  my  daughter,  thou,  indeed  a  son, 
Stay  me  on  either  side  :  wait  but  awhile 
And  ye  are  free,  yea,  seasoned  as  twin  beams 
Of  soundest  oak,  for  lintels  of  His  door." 

They  patiently  obeyed.     The  years  went  by, 

Until  five  winters  blanched  to  perfect  snow 

The  old  man's  hair.     Then,  when  the  gusts  of  March 

Shook  into  life  the  torpid  souls  of  trees, 

His  body  craved  its  rest.     Pie  summoned  Lars, 

And  meekly  said:  "  I  pray  thee,  pardon  me 

That  I  have  lived  so  long:  I  meant  it  not. 

Now  I  am  certain  that  the  end  is  near ; 


LARS  293 

And,  noting  as  I  must,  the  deep  concern 

On  both  your  minds,  I  fain  would  aid  that  work, 

The  which,  I  see,  ye  mean  to  undertake." 

Then  counsel  wise  he  gave :  it  seemed  his  mind, 

Those  five  long  years,  had  pondered  all  things  well, 

Computed  every  chance  and  sought  the  best, 

Foresaw  and  weighed,  foreboded  and  prepared, 

Until  the  call  was  made  his  legacy. 

At  last  he  said :  ' '  My  sight  is  verily  clear, 

And  I  behold  your  duty  as  yourselves  ;  " 

Then  spake  farewell  with  pleasant  voice,  and  died. 

"When  summer  came,  upon  an  English  ship 

Sailed  Lars  and  Ruth  between  the  rich  green  shores 

That  widened,  sinking,  till  the  land  was  drowned, 

And  they  were  blown  on  rolling  fields  of  blue. 

Blown  backward  more  than  on  ;  and  evil  eyes 

Of  sailors  on  their  sober  Quaker  garb 

Began  to  turn.     "  Our  Jonah!  "  was  the  cry, 

When  Lars  was  seen  upon  the  quarter-deck, 

And  one,  a  ruffian  from  the  Dorset  moors, 

Became  so  impudent  and  foul  of  tongue 

That  Ruth  was  frightened,  would  have  fled  below, 

But  Lars  prevented  her.     Three  strides  he  made, 

Then  by  the  waistband  and  the  neck  he  seized 

That  brutish  boor,  and  o'er  the  bulwarks  held, 

Above  the  brine,  like  death  for  very  fear. 
"  Now,  promise  me  to  keep  a  decent  tongue!  " 

Cried  Lars  ;  and  he  :   "I  promise  anything, 

But  let  me  not  be  lost  ! "     Thenceforth  respect 

Those  sailors  showed  to  strength,  though  clad  in  peace. 
;<  Now  see  I  wherefore  thou  wert  made  so  strong," 

Ruth  said  to  him,  and  inwardly  rejoiced  ; 

And  soon  the  mists  and  baffling  breezes  fled 

Before  a  wind  that  down  from  Labrador 

Blew  like  a  will  unwearied,  night  and  day, 
•Across  the  desert  of  the  middle  sea. 

Out  of  the  waters  rose  the  Scilly  Isles, 

Afar  and  low,  and  then  the  Cornish  hills, 

And,  floating  up  by  many  a  valley-mouth 

Of  Devon  streams,  they  came  to  Bristol  town. 

Awhile  among  their  brethren  they  abode, 

For  thus  had  Ezra  ordered.     There  were  some 

Concerned  in  trade,  whose  vessels  to  and  fro 

From  Hull  across  the  German  Ocean  sailed, 

And  touched  Norwegian  ports  ;  and  Lars  in  those 

The  old  man  said,  must  find  his  nearest  stay. 

But  soon  it  chanced  that  Avith  a  vessel  came 

A  man  of  Arendal,  in  Norway  land, 

Known  to  the  Friends  as  fair  in  word  and  deed, 

And  well-inclined ;  and  Gustaf  Hansen  named. 

Norse  tongue  makes  easy  friendship :  Lars  and  he 

Became  as  brothers  in  a  little  while, 

And,  when  his  worldly  charge  was  ordered,  they 

Together  all  embarked  for  Arendal. 


294  LARS 

Calm  autumn  skies  were  o'er  them,  and  the  sea 
Swelled  in  un wrinkled  glass  :  they  scarcely  knew 
How  sped  the  voyage,  until  Lindesnaes, 
At  first  a  cloud,  stood  fast,  and  spread  away 
To  flanking  capes,  with  gaps  of  blue  between ; 
Then  rose,  and  showed,  above  the  precipice, 
The  firs  of  Norway  climbing  thick  and  high 
To  wilder  crests  that  made  the  inland  gloom. 
In  front,  the  sprinkled  skerries  pierced  the  wave ; 
Between  them,  slowly  glided  in  and  out 
The  tawny  sails,  while  houses  low  and  red 
Hailed  their  return,  or  sent  them  fearless  forth. 
"This  is  thy  Norway,  Lars;  it  looks  like  thee," 
Said  Ruth :  "it  has  a  forehead  firm  and  bold  ; 
It  sets  its  foot  below  the  reach  of  storms, 
Yet  hides,  methinks,  in  each  retiring  vale, 
Delight  in  toil,  contentment,  love,  and  peace,  — 
My  land,  my  husband  !  let  me  love  it,  too !  " 
So  on  their  softened  hearts  the  sun  went  down 
And  rose  once  more ;  then  Gustaf  Hansen  came 
Beside  them,  pilot  of  familiar  shores, 
And  said  :  "To  starboard,  yonder,  lies  the  isle 
As  I  described  it ;  here,  upon  our  lee 
Is  mainland  all,  and  there  the  Nid  comes  down, 
The  timber-shouldering  Nid,  from  endless  woods 
And  wilder  valleys  where  scant  grain  is  grown. 
Now  bend  your  glances  as  my  finger  points,  — 
Lo!  there  it  is,  the  spire  of  Arendal ! 
Our  little  town,  as  homely,  kind,  and  dear, 
As  some  old  dame,  round  whom  her  children's  babes 
Cling  to  be  petted,  comforted,  and  spoiled. 
And  here,  my  friends,  shall  ye  with  me  abide 
And  with  my  Thora,  till  the  winter  melts, 
Which  there,  beyond  yon  wall  of  slaty  cloud, 
Possesses  fell  and  upland  even  now. 
Too  strange  is  Ruth  to  dare'those  snowy  wastes, 
Nor  is  there  need  :  good  Thora's  heart  will  turn    • 
To  her,  I  know,  as  mine  hath  turned  to  Lars ; 
And  Arendal  is  warmly -harbored,  snug, 
And  not  unfriendly  in  the  time  of  storms." 

They  could  not  say  him  nay.     The  anchor  dropped 
Before  the  town,  and  Thora,  from  the  land, 
Tall,  broad  of  breast,  with  ever-rosy  cheeks 
O'er  which  the  breezes  tossed  her  locks  of  gray, 
Stretched  arms  of  welcome ;  and  the  ancient  house, 
With  massive  beams  and  ample  chimney-place, 
As  in  Hockessin,  made  immediate  home. 
To  Ruth,  how  sweetly  the  geraniums  peeped 
With  scarlet  eyes  across  the  window-sill  ! 
How  orderly  the  snowy  curtains  shone  ! 
Familiar,  too,  the  plainness  and  the  use 
In  all  things ;  presses  of  the  dusky  oak, 
Fair  linen,  store  of  healing  herbs  that  smelled 
Of  charity,  and  signs  of  forethought  wise 
That  justified  the  plenty  of  the  house. 


LARS  295 

It  was  as  Gustaf  said  :  good  Thora  loved 
The  foreign  woman,  taught  and  counselled  her, 
Taking  to  heart  their  purpose,  so  that  she 
Unconsciously  received  the  truth  of  Friends. 
And  Gustaf  also,  through  the  soul  of  Lars, 
To  him  laid  bare,  and  all  that  blessing  clear 
Obedience  brings  when  speaks  the  inward  voice, 
Believed  erelong  ;  then  others  came  to  hear, 
Till  there,  in  Arendal,  a  brotherhood 
Of  earnest  seekers  for  the  light  grew  up, 
Before  the  hasty  spring  of  northern  lands 
Sowed  buttercups  along  the  banks  of  Md. 

But  when  they  burst,  those  precious  common  flowers 

That  not  a  meadow  of  the  world  can  spare, 

Said  Lars,  one  Sabbath,  to  the  little  flock : 

Here  we  have  tarried  long,  and  it  is  well ; 

But  now  we  go,  and  it  is  also  well. 

This  much  is  blessing  added  unto  those 

That  went  before;  hence  louder  rings  the  call 

Which  brought  me  hither,  and  I  must  obey. 

My  path  is  clear,  my  duty  strange  and  stern, 

The  end  thereof  uncertain;  it  may  be, 

My  brethren,  I  shall  never  see  ye  more. 

Your  love  upholds  me,  and  your  faith  confirms 

My  purpose  :  bless  me  now,  and  bid  farewell !  " 

Then  Gustaf  wept,  and  said:  "Our  brother,  go! 

Yet  thou  art  with  us,  and  we  walk  with  thee 

In  this  or  yonder  world,  as  bids  the  Lord." 

Their  needful  preparations  soon  were  made  : 

Two  strong  dun  horses  of  the  mountain  breed, 

With  hoofs  like  claws,  that  clung  where'er  they  touched, 

L'nholstered  saddles,  leathern  wallets  filled 

With  scrip  for  houseless  ways,  close-woven  cloaks 

To  comfort  them  upon  the  cloudy  fells, 

And  precious  books,  by  Penn  and  Barclay  writ 

And  Woolman,  — these  made  up  their  little  store. 

The  few  and  faithful  went  with  them  a  space 

Along  the  banks  of  Md  ;  there  first  besought 

All  power  and  light,  and  furtherance  for  the  task 

Awaiting  Lars :  they  knew  not  what  it  was, 

But  what  it  was,  they  knew,  was  good  :  then  all 

Gave  hands  and  said  farewell,  and  Lars  and  Ruth 

Rode  boldly  onward,  facing  the  dark  land. 

Across  the  lonely  hills  of  Tellemark, 

That  smiled  in  sunshine,  went  their  earnest  way, 

And  by  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  Tind  ; 

Then,  leaving  on  the  left  that  chasm  of  dread 

Where,  under  Gousta's  base,  the  Riukan  falls 

In  winnowing  blossoms,  tendrilled  vines  of  foam, 

And  bursting  rockets  of  the  starry  spray, 

They  rode  through  forests  into  Hemsedal. 

The  people  marvelled  at  their  strange  attire, 

But  all  were  kind  ;  and  Ruth,  to  whom  their  speech 


296  LARS 

Was  now  familiar,  found  such  ordered  toil, 
Such  easy  gladness,  temperate  desire, 
That  many  doubts  were  laid  :  the  spirit  slept, 
She  thought,  and  waited  but  a  heartsome  call. 
Then  ever  higher  stood  the  stormy  fells 
Against  uncertain  skies,  as  they  advanced ; 
And  ever  grander  plunged  the  roaring  snow 
Of  mighty  waterfalls  from  cliff  to  vale  : 
The  firs  were  mantled  in  a  blacker  shade, 
The  rocks  were  rusted  as  with  ancient  blood, 
And  winds  that  shouted- or  in  wailing  died 
Harried  the  upper  fields,  in  endless  wrath 
At  finding  there  no  man. 

The  soul  of  Lars 
Expanded  with  a  solemn  joy  ;  but  Ruth, 
Awed  by  the  gloom  and  wildness  of  the  land, 
Rode  close  and  often  touched  her  husband's  arm; 
And  when  within  its  hollow  dell  they  saw 
The  church  of  Borgund  like  a  dragon  sit, 
Its  roof  all  horns,  its  pitchy  shingles  laid 
Like  serpent  scales,  its  door  a  dusky  throat, 
She  whispered :  "  This  the  ancients  must  have  left 
From  their  abolished  worship  :  is  it  so  ? 
This  is  no  temple  of  the  living  Lord, 
That  makes  me  fear  it  like  an  evil  thing  ! " 
"  Consider  not  its  outward  form,"  said  Lars, 
"  Or  mine  may  vex  thee,  for  my  sin  outgrown. 
I  would  the  dragon  in  the  people's  blood 
As  harmless  were !  "     So  downward,  side  by  side, 
From  ridges  of  the  windy  Fille  Fell 
Unto  the  borders  of  the  tamer  brine, 
The  sea-arm  bathing  Frithiof's  home,  they  rode  ; 
Then  two  days  floated  past  those  granite  walls 
That  mock  the  boatman  with  a  softer  song, 
And  took  the  land  again,  where  shadow  broods, 
And  frequent  thunder  of  the  tumbling  rocks 
Is  heard  the  summer  through,  in  Naerodal. 
To  Ruth  the  gorge  seemed  awful,  and  the  path 
That  from  its  bowels  toiled  to  meet  the  sun, 
Was  hard  as  any  made  for  Christian's  feet, 
In  Bunyan's  dream  ;  but  Lars  with  lighter  step 
The  giddy  zigzag  scaled,  for  now,  beyond, 
Kot  distant,  lay  the  Vossevangen  vale, 
And  all  the  cheerful  neighborhood  of  home. 

At  last,  one  quiet  afternoon,  they  crossed 

The  fell  from  Graven,  and  below  them  saw 

The  roofs  of  Ulvik  and  the  orchard-trees 

Shining  in  richer  colors,  and  the  fiord, 

A  dim  blue  gloom  between  Hardanger  heights,  — 

The  strife  and  peace,' the  plenty  and  the  need; 

And  both  were  silent  for  a  little  space. 

Then  Ruth  :  "  I  had  not  thought  thy  home  so  fair, 

Nor  yet  so  stern  and  overhung  with  dread, 

It  seems  to  draw  me  as  a  danger  draws, 


LARS  297 

Yet  gives  me  courage :  is  it  well  with  thee  ?  " 
'  That  which  I  would,  I  know,"  responded  Lars, 
'  Not  that  which  may  be :  ask  no  more,  I  pray ! " 

Then  downward,  weary,  strangely  moved,  yet  glad, 

They  went,  a  wonder  to  the  Ulvik  folk, 

Till  some  detected,  'neath  his  shadowy  brim, 

The  eyes  of  Lars;  and  he  was  scarcely  housed 

With  his  astonished  kindred,  ere  the  news 

Spread  from  the  fountain,  ran  along  the  shore. 

For  all  believed  him  dead  :  in  truth,  the  dead 

Could  not  have  risen  in  stranger  guise  than  he, 

Who  spake  as  one  they  knew  and  did  not  know, 

Who  seemed  another,  yet  must  be  the  same. 

His  folk  were  kind:  they  owned  the  right  of  blood, 

Nor  would  disgrace  it,  though  a  half -disgrace 

Lars  seemed  to  bring  ;  but  in  her  strange,  sweet  self 

Ruth  brought  a  pleasure  which  erelong  was  love. 

Her  gentle  voice,  her  patient,  winning  ways, 

Pure  thought  and  ignorance  of  evil  things 

That  on  her  wedlock  left  a  virgin  bloom, 

Set  her  above  them,  yet  her  nature  dwelt 

In  lowliness :  sister  and  saint  she  seemed. 

Soon  Thorsten,  brother  of  the  slaughtered  Per, 
Alike  a  stalwart  fisher  of  the  fiord, 
Heard  who  had  come,  and  published  unto  all 
The  debt  of  blood  he  meant  to  claim  of  Lars. 
'  The  coward,  only,  comes  as  man  of  peace, 
To  shirk  such  payment ! "  were  his  bitter  words. 
And  they  were  carried  unto  Lars  :  but  he 
Spake  firmly :  "Well  I  knew  what  he  would  claim: 
The  coward,  knowing,  comes  not."     Nothing  more; 
Nor  could  they  guess  the  purpose  of  his  mind. 
In  little  Ulvik  all  the  people  learned 
What  words  had  passed,  and  there  were  friends  of  both  ; 
But  Lars  kept  silent,  walked  the  ways  unarmed, 
And  preached  the  pardon  of  an  utmost  wrong. 
Now  Thorsten  saw  in  this  but  some  device 
To  try  his  own  forbearance :  his  revenge 
Grew  hungry  for  an  answering  enmity, 
And  weary  of  its  shame ;  and  so,  at  last, 
He  sent  this  message  :   "If  Lars  Thorstensen 
Deny  not  blood  he  spilled,  and  guilt  thereof, 
Then  let  him  meet  me  by  the  Graven  lake,"  — 
On  such  a  day. 

When  came  the  message,  Lars 
Spake  thus  to  all  his  kindred:  "  I  will  go  : 
I  do  deny  not  my  blood-guiltiness. 
This  thing  hath  rested  on  my  soul  for  years, 
And  must  be  met."     Then  unto  Ruth  he  turned  : 
'  I  go  alone:  abide  thou  with  our  kin." 
But  she  arose  and  answered  :  "  Nay,  I  go! 
Forbid  me  not,  or  I  must  disobey, 
Which  were  a  cross.     I  give  thee  to  the  Lord, 
His  helpless  instrument,  to  break  or  save  ; 


298  LARS 

Think  not  my  weakness  shall  confuse  thy  will ! " 
Lars  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head,  and  all 
Were  strangely  melted,  though  he  spake  no  more, 
Nor  then,  nor  on  the  way  to  Graven  lake. 

Lo !  there  were  many  gathered,  kin  of  both, 
Or  friends,  or  folk  acquainted  with  the  tale, 
And  curious  for  its  end.     The  summer  sky 
Was  beautiful  above  them,  and  the  trees 
Stood  happy,  stretching  forth  forgiving  arms  ; 
Yet  sultry  thunder  in  the  hearts  of  men 
Brooded,  the  menace  of  a  rain  of  blood. 
Lars  paused  not  when  he  came.     He  saw  the  face 
Of  Thorsten,  ruddy,  golden-haired  like  Per's, 
Amid  the  throng,  and  straightway  went  to  him 
And  spake :  "I  come,  as  thou  invitest  me. 
My  brother,  I  have  shed  thy  brother's  blood  ; 
What  wouldst  thou  I  should  do  thee,  to  atone  ?  " 

"  Give  yours! "  cried  Thorsten,  stepping  back  a  pace. 

"  That  murderous  law  we  took  from  heathen  sires," 
Said  Lars,  "  is  guilt  upon  a  Christian  land. 
I  do  abjure  it.     Wilt  thou  have  my  blood, 
Nor  less,  I  dare  not  lift  a  hand  for  thine." 

"  You  came  not,  then,  to  fight,  though  branded  here 
A  coward  ?  " 

"  Nay,  nor  ever,"  answered  Lars ; 

"  But,  were  I  coward,  could  I  calmly  bear 
Thy  words  ?  "    Then  Thorkil,  friend  of  Thorsten,  cried : 

' '  These  people,  in  their  garments,  I  have  heard, 
Put  on  their  peace  ;  or  else  some  magic  dwells 
In  shape  of  hat  or  color  of  the  coat, 
To  make  them  harmless  as  a  browsing  hare. 
That  Lars  we  knew  had  danger  in  his  eyes  ; 
But  this  one,  —  why,  uncover,  let  us  see ! " 
Therewith  struck  off  the  hat.     And  others  there 
Fell  upon  Lars,  and  tore  away  his  coat, 
Nor  ceased  the  outrage  until  they  had  made 
His  body  bare  to  where  the  leathern  belt 
Is  clasped  between  the  breast -bone  and  the  hip. 

Around  his  waist  they  buckled  then  a  belt, 
And  brought  a  knife,  and  thrust  it  in  his  hand. 
The  open  fingers  would  not  hold  :  the  knife 
Fell  from  them,  struck,  and  quivered  in  the  sod. 
Thorsten,  apart,  had  also  bared  his  breast, 
And  waited,  beautiful  in  rosy  life. 
Then  Thorkil  and  another  drew  the  twain 
Together,  hooked  the  belts  of  each,  and  strove 
Once  more  to  arm  the  passive  hand  of  Lars  : 
In  vain  :  his  open  fingers  would  not  hold 
The  knife,  which  fell  and  quivered  in  the  sod. 
He  looked  in  Thorsten's  eyes  ;  great  sorrow  fell 


LARS  299 

Upon  him,  and  a  tender  human  love. 

14 1  did  not  this,"  he  said  ;  "  nor  will  resist. 
If  thou  art  minded  so,  then  strike  me  dead : 
But  thou  art  sacred,  for  the  blood  I  spilled 
Is  in  thy  veins,  my  brother  :  yea,  all  blood 
Of  all  men  sacred  is  in  thee."     His  arms 
Hung  at  his  side :  he  did  not  shrink  or  sway  : 
His  flesh  touched  Thorsten' s  where  the  belts  were  joined, 
And  felt  its  warmth.     Then  twice  did  Thorsten  lift 
His  armed  hand,  and  twice  he  let  it  sink  : 
An  anguish  came  upon  his  face  :  he  groaned, 
And  all  that  heard  him  marvelled  at  the  words  ; 

"  Have  pity  on  me  ;  turn  away  thine  eyes: 
I  cannot  slay  thee  while  they  look  on  me !  " 

"  If  I  could  end  this  bloody  custom  so, 
In  all  the  land,  nor  plant  a  late  remorse 
For  what  is  here  thy  justice,"  answered  Lars, 

"  I  could  not  say  thee  nay.     Yet,  if  the  deed 
Be  good,  thou  shouldst  have  courage  for  the  deed ! " 
Once  more  looked  Thorsten  in  those  loving  eyes, 
And  shrank,  and  shuddered,  and  grew  deadly  pale, 
Till,  with  a  gasp  for  breath,  as  one  who  drowns 
Draws,  when  he  dips  again  above  the  wave, 
He  loosed  the  clutching  belts,  and  sat  him  down 
And  hid  his  face  :  they  heard  him  only  say  : 

"  'T  were  well  that  I  should  die,  for  very  shame  !  " 
Lars  heard,  and  spake  to  all :  "  The  shame  is  mine, 
Whose  coward  heart  betrayed  me  unto  guilt. 
I  slew  my  brother  Per,  nor  sought  his  blood  : 
Thou,  Thorsten,  wilt  not  mine  ;  I  read  thy  heart. 
But  ye,  who  trample  on  the  soul  of  man 
In  still  demanding  he  shall  ne'er  outgrow 
The  savage  in  his  veins,  through  faith  in  Good, 
Who  Thorsten  rule,  even  as  ye  ruled  myself,  — 
I  call  ye  to  repent !    That  God  we  left, 
White  Balder,  were  more  merciful  than  this  : 
If  one,  henceforward,  cast  on  Thorsten  shame, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  him  when  the  judgment  comes  1 " 

Never  before,  such  words  in  such  a  place 
Were  preached  by  such  apostle.     Bared,  as  though 
For  runes  of  death,  while  red  Berserker  rage 
Kindled  in  some,  in  others  smouldered  out, 
He  raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to  the  sky  : 
Far  off,  behind  the  silent  fells,  there  rolled 
A  sudden  thunder.     Ruth,  who  all  the  while 
Moved  not  nor  spake,  stood  forth,  and  o'er  her  face 
There  came  the  glory  of  an  opening  heaven. 
Now  that  she  knew  the  habit  of  the  folk, 
She  spake  not ;  but  she  clothed  the  form  of  Lars 
In  silence,  and  the  women,  weeping,  helped. 
Then  Thorsten  rose,  and  seeing  her,  he  said  : 
"  Thou  art  his  wife  ;  they  tell  me  thou  art  good. 
I  am  no  bloodier  than  thy  husband  was 
Before  he  knew  thee :  hast  thou  aught  to  say  ?  " 
She  took  his  hand  and  spake,  as  one  inspired  : 


300  LARS 

"  Thou  couldst  not  make  thyself  a  man  of  blood  ! 
This  is  thy  seed  of  blessing  :  let  it  grow  ! 
Gladness  of  heart,  and  peace,  and  honored  name 
Shall  come  to  thee  :  the  unrighteous,  cruel  law 
Is  broken  by  thy  hands,  no  less  than  his 
Who  loves  thee,  and  would  sooner  die  than  harm ! " 

"  They  speak  the  truth,"  said  Thorsten  ;  "thou  art  good, 
And  it  were  surely  bitter  grief  to  thee 
If  I  had  slain  him.     Go !  his  blood  is  safe 
From  hands  of  mine." 

His  words  the  most  approved  ; 
The  rest,  bewildered,  knew  not  what  to  say. 
In  these  the  stubborn  mind  and  plastic  heart 
Agreed  not  quickly,  for  the  thing  was  strange, 
An  olden  tale  with  unforeboded  end  : 
They  must  have  time.     The  crowd  soon  fell  apart, 
Some  faces  glad,  all  solemn,  and  dispersed  ; 
Except  one  woman,  who,  from  time  to  time, 
Pressed  forward,  then,  as  with  uncertain  will, 
Turned  back  as  often.     Troubled  was  her  face 
And  worn  :  within  the  hollows  of  her  eyes 
Dwelt  an  impatient  sorrow,  and  her  lips 
Had  from  themselves  the  girlish  fulness  pressed. 
Her  hair  hung  negligent,  though  plenteous  still ; 
And  beauty  that  no  longer  guards  itself, 
But  listlessly  beholds  its  ruin  come, 
Made  her  an  apparition  wild  and  sad, 
A  cloud  on  others'  joy. 

Lars,  as  he  left 
That  field  unsullied,  saw  the  woman  stand. 

"  Brita  !  "  he  cried;  and  all  the  past  returned 
And  all  the  present  mixed  with  it,  and  made 
His  mouth  to  quiver  and  his  eyes  to  fill : 

"Unhappy  Brita,  and  I  made  thee  so  ! 
Is  there  forgiveness  yet  for  too  much  love 
And  foolish  faith,  that  brought  us  double  woe  ? 
I  dare  not  ask  it ;  couldst  thou  give  unasked  ?  " 
Her  face  grew  hard  to  keep  the  something  back 
Which  softened  her  :  "  Make  Per  alive,"  she  said, 

"  One  moment  only,  that  he  pardon  me, 
And  thou  art  pardoned  !  else,  I  think,  canst  thou 
Bear  silence,  as  I  bear  it  from  the  dead. 
Oh,  thou  hast  done  me  harm  !  "    But  Ruth  addressed 
These  words  to  her:  "I  never  did  thee  harm, 
Yet  on  my  soul  my  husband's  guilt  to  thee 
Is  made  a  shadow :  let  me  be  thy  friend ! 
Only  a  woman  knows  a  woman's  need." 

Lars  understood  the  gesture  and  the  glance 
Which  Ruth  then  gave,  and  hastened  on  the  path 
To  join  his  kindred,  leaving  them  alone. 
So  Ruth  by  Brita  walked,  and  spake  to  her 
In  words  whose  very  sound  a  comfort  gave, 
Like  some  soft  wind  that  o'er  an  arid  land, 


LARS  301 

Unfelt  at  first,  fans  on  with  cooling  wings 

Till  all  the  herbage  freshens,  and  the  soil 

Is  moist  with  dew  ;  and  Brita's  arid  heart 

Thus  opened :  "  Yea,  all  this  is  very  well. 

So  much  thou  knowest,  being  woman,  —  love 

Of  man,  and  man's  of  thee,  and  both  declared  : 

But  say,  how  canst  thou  measure  misery 

Of  love  that  lost  its  chances,  made  the  Past 

One  dumbness,  and  forever  reckons  o'er 

The  words  unspoken,  which  to  both  were  sweet, 

The  touch  of  hands  that  never  binding  met, 

The  kisses,  never  given  and  never  took, 

The  hopes  and  raptures  that  were  never  shared,  — 

Nay,  worse  than  this,  for  she  withheld,  who  knew 

They  might  have  been,  from  him  who  never  knew  !  " 

Therewith  her  passion  loosed  itself  in  sobs, 

And  on  the  pitying  breast  of  Ruth  she  wept 

Her  heart  to  calmness  ;  then,  with  less  of  pain, 

She  told  the  simple  story  of  her  life  : 

How,  scarce  two  years  before,  her  grandam  died, 

Who  would  have  seen  her  wedded,  and  was  wroth, 

At  times,  in  childish  petulance  of  age, 

But  kinder  —  'twas  a  blessing!  — ere  she  died, 

Leaving  the  cottage  highest  on  the  slope, 

Naught  else,  to  Brita ;  but  her  wants  were  few. 

The  garden  helped  her,  and  the  spotted  cow, 

Now  old,  indeed  :  she  span  the  winter  through, 

And  there  was  meal  enough,  and  Thorsten  gave 

Sometimes  a  fish,  because  she  grieved  for  Per  ; 

And,  now  the  need  of  finery  was  gone,  — 

For  men  came  not  a-wooing  where  consent 

Abode  not,  —  she  had  made  the  least  suffice. 

Yes,  she  was  lonely :  it  was  better  so, 

For  she  must  learn  to  live  in  loneliness. 

As  much  as  unto  Ruth  she  had  not  said 

To  any  woman,  trusting  her,  it  seemed, 

Without  a  knowledge,  more  than  them  she  knew 
"  Yea,  trust  me,  Sister  Brita!"  Ruth  replied, 
"  And  try  to  love  :  my  heart  is  drawn  to  thee." 

Thereafter,  many  a  day,  went  Ruth  alone 

To  Brita's  cottage,  vexing  not  with  words 

That  woke  her  grief,  and  silent  as  to  Lars, 

Till  Brita  learned  to  smile  when  she  appeared, 

And  missed  her  when  she  came  not.     Now,  meanwhile, 

The  news  of  Lars,  and  Thorsten's  foiled  revenge 

Beside  the  lake  of  Graven,  travelled  far 

Past  Vik  and  Vossevangen,  o'er  the  fells, 

To  all  the  homesteads  of  the  Bergenstift ; 

And  every  gentle  heart  leaped  up  in  joy, 

While  those  of  restless  old  Berserker  blood 

Beat  hot  with  wrath.     Who  oversets  old  laws, 

They  said,  is  dangerous  ;  and  who  is  he 

That  dares  to  preach,  and  hath  not  been  ordained  ? 

This  thing  concerns  the  ministers,  they  whom 

The  State  sets  over  us,  with  twofold  power, 


302  LARS 

Divine  and  secular,  to  teach  and  rule. 

Then  he,  the  shepherd  of  the  Ulvik  flock, 

Not  now  that  good  old  man,  but  one  whose  youth 

More  hateful  showed  his  Christless  bigotry, 

Made  Sabbaths  hot  with  his  anathemas 

Of  Lars,  and  stirred  a  tumult  in  the  land. 

Some  turned  away,  and  all  grew  faint  of  heart, 

Seeing  the  foothold  yield,  and  slip  ;  till  Lars, 

Now  shunned  at  home,  and  drawn  by  messages 

From  Gustaf  Hansen  and  the  faithful  souls 

In  Arendal,  said  :  "  It  is  time  to  go." 

"  Nay,  tarry  but  a  little  while,"  spake  Ruth. 
' '  I  have  my  purpose  here,  as  thou  hadst  thine : 

Grant  me  but  freedom,  for  the  end,  I  think, 

Is  justified." 

Lars  answered :  "  Have  thy  will ! " 

She  summoned  Brita,  and  the  twain  went  down 

To  pace  the  scanty  strand  beside  the  wave, 

Which,  after  storm,  was  quiet,  though  the  gloom 

Of  high,  opposing  mountains  filled  the  fiord. 

Ruth  spake  of  parting ;  Brita  answered  not, 

But  up  and  down  in  silence  walked  the  strand, 

Then  suddenly  :  "No  message  sendeth  Lars  ? 

My  pardon  he  implored  ;  and  that,  to  thee, 

I  know,  were  welcome.     Hadst  thou  asked,  perchance, 

Perverse  in  sorrow,  I  should  still  withhold  ; 

But  thou  departest,  who  hast  been  so  kind, 

And  I  —  ah,  God  !  what  else  have  I  to  give  ?" 

"  The  Lord  requite  thee,  Brita!"  Ruth  exclaimed  ; 

"  The  gift  that  blesses  must  be  given  unasked : 
What  now  remains  is  easy.     Come  with  us, 
With  Lars  and  me,  and  be  our  home  thy  home, 
All  peace  we  win,  all  comfort,  thine  as  ours  !  " 

Once  more  walked  Brita  up  and  down  the  strand, 

Bowing  her  face  upon  her  shielding  hands, 

As  if  to  muse,  unwatched  ;  then  stood,  and  seemed 

About  to  speak,  when,  with  a  shrilling  cry 

She  sprang,  and  fell,  and  grovelled  on  her  knees, 

And  thrust  her  fingers  in  the  wet  sea-sand. 

Ruth,  all  in  terror,  ran  to  her,  and  saw 

How,  from  the  bones  of  some  long-wasted  fish 

An  osprey  dropped,  or  tempest  beat  to  death, 

Caught  in  the  breakers,  and  the  drifted  shells, 

And  tangles  of  the  rotting  kelp,  she  plucked 

Something  that  sparkled,  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 

And  cried:  "  A  sign  !  a  sign!  't  is  grandam  speaks!" 

Then  trembling  rose,  and  flung  herself  on  Ruth, 

And  kissed  her,  saying :   "I  will  follow  thee. 

My  heart  assented,  yet  I  had  denied, 

But,  ere  I  spake,  the  miracle  was  done ! 

Thy  words  give  back  the  jewel  lost  with  Per  : 

Teil  Lars  I  do  forgive  him,  and  will  serve 


LARS  303 

Thee,  Ruth,  a  willing  handmaid,  in  thy  home!" 

So  Brita  went  with  them  to  Arendal. 

There  milder  habits,  easier  government 

Of  bench  and  pulpit  for  a  while  left  all 

In  peace  :  and  not  alone  within  the  fold 

Of  Friends  came  Brita,  but  the  Lord  inspired. 

She  spake  with  power,  as  one  by  suffering  taught 

A  chastened  spirit,  and  she  wrought  good  works. 

She  was  a  happy  matron  ere  she  died, 

And  blessing  came  on  all ;  for,  from  that  day 

Of  doubt  and  anguish  by  the  Graven  lake, 

The  Lord  fulfilled  in  Ruth  one  secret  prayer, 

And  gave  her  children  ;  and  the  witness  borne 

By  Lars,  the  voice  of  his  unsprinkled  blood, 

Became  a  warning  on  Norwegian  hills. 

Here,  now,  they  fade.     The  purpose  of  their  lives 
Was  lifted  up,  by  something  over  life, 
To  power  and  service.     Though  the  name  of  Lars 
Be  never  heard,  the  healing  of  the  world 
Is  in  its  nameless  saints.     Each  separate  star 
Seems  nothing,  but  a  myriad  scattered  stars 
Break  up  the  Night,  and  make  it  beautiful. 
Gotha,  Germany,  1872. 


LATEST   LYRICS 


LATEST   LYRICS 


1870-1878 


THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  DAY 


"Who  shall  rise  and  cast  away, 
First,  the  Burden  of  the  Day  ? 
Who  assert  his  place,  and  teach 
Lighter  labor,  nobler  speech, 
Standing  firm,  erect,  and  strong, 
Proud  as  Freedom,  free  as  Song  ? 


Lo  !  we  groan  beneath  the  weight 
Our  own  weaknesses  create ; 
Crook  the  knee  and  shut  the  lip, 
All  for  tamer  fellowship ; 
Load  our  slack,  compliant  clay 
With  the  Burden  of  the  Day ! 


Higher  paths  there  are  to  tread ; 
Fresher  fields  around  us  spread  ; 
Other  flames  of  sun  and  star 
Flash  at  hand  and  lure  afar  ; 
Larger  manhood  might  we  share, 
Surer  fortune,  — did^we  dare  ! 

IV 

In  our  mills  of  common  thought 
By  the  pattern  all  is  wrought : 
In  our  school  of  life,  the  man 
Drills  to  suit  the  public  plan, 
And  through  labor,  love,  and  play, 
Shifts  the  Burden  of  the  Day. 


Ah,  the  gods  of  wood  and  stone 
Can  a  single  saint  dethrone, 
But  the  people  who  shall  aid 
'Gainst  the  puppets  they  have  made  ? 
First  they  teach  and  then  obey : 
'T  is  the  Burden  of  the  Day. 


Thunder  shall  we  never  hear 
In  this  ordered  atmosphere  ? 
Never  this  monotony  feel 


Shattered  by  a  trumpet's  peal  ? 
Never  airs  that  burst  and  blow 
From  eternal  summits,  know  ? 

VII 

Though  no  man  resent  his  wrong, 
Still  is  free  the  poet's  song: 
Still,  a  stag,  his  thought  may  leap 
O'er  the  herded  swine  and  sheep, 
And  in  pastures  far  away 
Lose  the  Burden  of  the  Day  ! 

1870. 


IN  THE  LISTS 

Could  I  choose  the  age  and  fortunate 
season 
When  to  be  born, 
I  would  fly  from  the  censure  of  your 
barren  reason, 
And  the  scourges  of  your  scorn  : 
Could  I  take  the  tongue,  and  the  land, 
and  the  station 
That  to  me  were  fit, 
I  would  make  my  life  a  force  and  an 
exultation, 
And  you  could  not  stifle  it ! 

But  the  thing  most  near  to  the  freedom 
I  covet 
Is  the  freedom  I  wrest 
From  a  time  that  would  bar  me  from 
climbing  above  it, 
To  seek  the  East  in  the  West. 
I  have  dreamed  of  the  forms  of  a  nobler 
existence 
Than  you  give  me  here, 
And  the  beauty  that  lies  afar  in  the 
dateless  distance 
I  would  conquer,  and  bring  more 
near. 

It  is  good,  undowered  with  the  bounty 
of  Fortune, 
In  the  sun  to  stand  : 


3o8 


LATEST   LYRICS 


Let   others    excuse,  and  cringe,  and 
importune, 
I   will  try  the   strength  of   my 
hand! 
If  I  fail,  I  shall  fall  not  among  the 
mistaken, 
Whom  you  dare  deride : 
If  I  win,  you  shall  hear,  and  see,  and 
at  last  awaken 
To  thank  me  because  I  defied ! 

1871. 


THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THE  GODS 


Who  shall  sunder  the  fetters, 
Who  scale  the  invisible  ramparts 
Whereon  our  nimblest  forces 
Hurl  their  vigor  in  vain  ? 
Where,  like  the  baffling  crystal 
To  a  wildered  bird  of  the  heavens, 
Something  holds  and  imprisons 
The  eager,  the  stirring  brain  ? 


Alas,  from  the  fresh  emotion, 
From  thought  that  is  born  of  feeling, 
From  form,  self -shaped,  and  slowly 
Its  own  completeness  evolving, 
To  the  rhythmic  speech,  how  long ! 
What  hand  shall  master  the  tumult 
Where  one  on  the  other  tramples, 
And  none  escapes  a  wrong  ? 
Where  the  crowding  germs  of  a  thou- 
sand 
Fancies  encumber  the  portal, 
Till  one  plucks  a  voice  from  the  mur- 
murs 
And  lifts  himself  into  Song ! 

in 

As  a  man  that  walks  in  the  mist, 
As  one  that  gropes  for  the  morning 
Through    lengthening    chambers    of 

twilight, 
The  souls  of  the  poems  wander 
Restless,  and  dumb,  and  lost, 
Till  the  Word,  like  a  beam  of  morning, 
Shivers  the  pregnant  silence, 
And  the  light  of  speech  descends 
Like  a  tongue  of  the  Pentecost ! 

IV 

Ah,  moment  not  to  be  purchased, 

Not  to  be  won  by  prayers, 


Not  by  toil  to  be  conquered) 
But  given,  lest  one  despair, 
By  the  Gods  in  wayward  kindness, 
Stay  —  thou  art  all  too  fair ! 
Hour  of  the  dancing  measures, 
Sylph  of  the  dew  and  rainbow, 
Let  us  clutch  thy  shining  hair ! 


For  the  mist  is  blown  from  the  mind, 
For  the  impotent  yearning  is  over, 
And  the  wings  of  the  thoughts  have 

power : 
In  the  warmth  and  the  glow  creative 
Existence  mellows  and  ripens, 
And  a  crowd  of  swift  surprises 
Sweetens  the  fortunate  hour ; 
Till  a  shudder  of  rapture  loosens 
The  tears  that  hang  on  the  eyelids 
Like  a  breeze-suspended  shower, 
With  a  sense  of  heavenly  freshness 
Blown  from  beyond  the  sunshine, 
And  the  blood,  like  the  sap  of  the 

roses, 
Breaks  into  bud  and  flower. 


'Tis  the  Sunshine  of  the  Gods, 
The  sudden  light  that  quickens, 
Unites  the  nimble  forces, 
And  yokes  the  shy  expression 
To  the  thoughts  that  waited  long,  — 
Waiting  and  wooing  vainly : 
But  now  they  meet  like  lovers 
In  the  time  of  willing  increase, 
Each  warming  each,  and  giving 
The  kiss  that  maketh  strong : 
And  the  mind  feels  fairest  May-time 
In  the  marriage  of  its  passions, 
For  Thought  is  one  with  Speech, 
In  the  Sunshine  of  the  Gods, 
And  Speech  is  one  with  Song ! 


Then  a  rhythmic  pulse  makes  order 
In  the  troops  of  wandering  fancies: 
Held  in  soft  subordination, 
Lo  !  they  follow,  lead,  or  fly. 
The  fields  of  their  feet  are  endless, 
And  the  heights  and  the  deeps  are 

open 
To  the  glance  of  the  equal  sky : 
And  the  Masters  sit  no  longer 
In  inaccessible  distance, 
But  give  to  the  haughtiest  question, 
Smiling,  a  sweet  reply. 


NOTUS   IGNOTO 


3°9 


VIII 

Dost  mourn,  because  the  moment 
Is  a  gift  beyond  thy  will,  — 
A  gift  thy  dreams  had  promised, 
Yet  they  gave  to  Chance  its  keeping 
And  fettered  thy  free  achievement 
"With  the  hopes  they  not  fulfil? 
Dost  sigh  o'er  the  fleeting  rapture, 
The  bliss  of  reconcilement 
Of  powers  that  work  apart, 
Yet  lean  on  each  other  still  ? 

IX 

Be  glad,  for  this  is  the  token, 

The  sign  and  the  seal  of  the  Poet  : 

Were  it  held  by  will  or  endeavor. 

There  were  naught  so  precious  in  Song. 

Wait :  for  the  shadows  unlifted 

To  a  million  that  crave  the  sunshine, 

Shall  be  lifted  for  thee  erelong. 

Light  from  the  loftier  regions 

Here  unattainable  ever,  — 

Bath  of  brightness  and  beauty,  — 

Let  it  make  thee  glad  and  strong ! 

Not  to  clamor  or  fury, 

Not  to  lament  or  yearning, 

But  to  faith  and  patience  cometh 

The  Sunshine  of  the  Gods, 

The  hour  of  perfect  Song ! 


NOTUS  IGNOTO 


Do  you  sigh  for  the  power  you  dream 

of, 
The  fair,  evasive  secret, 
The  rare  imagined  passion, 
O  Friend  unknown ! 
Do  you  haunt  Egyptian  portals, 
Where,  within,  the  laboring  goddess 
Yields  to  the  hands  of  her  chosen 
The  sacred  child,  alone  1 


Ah,  pause !    There  is  consolation 

For  you,  and  pride: 

Free  of  choice  and  worship, 

Spared  the  pang  and  effort, 

Nor  partial  made  by  triumph, 

The  poet's  limitations 

You  lightly  set  aside: 

Revived,  in  your  fresher  spirit 

The  buds  of  my  thought  may  blossom, 

And  the  clew,  from  weary  fingers 

Fallen,  become  your  guide! 


The  taker,  even  as  the  giver, 
The  user  as  the  maker, 
Soil  as  seed,  and  rain  as  sunshine, 
Alike  are  glorified  ! 

in 

Loss  with  gain  is  balanced ; 
You  may  reach,  when  I  but  beckon ; 
You  may  drink,  though  mine  the  vin- 
tage, 
You  complete  what  I  begun. 
When  at  the  temple-door  I  falter, 
You  advance  to  the  altar ; 
I  but  rise  to  the  daybreak, 
You  to  the  sun ! 
My  goal  is  your  beginning : 
My  steeps  of  aspiration 
For  you  are  won ! 

IV 

Hark !  the  nightingale  is  chanting 
As  if  her  mate  but  knew  ; 
Yet  the  dream  within  me 
Which  the  bird-voice  wakens, 
Takes  from  her  unconscious 
Prompting,  form  and  hue : 
So  the  song  I  sing  you, 
Voice  alone  of  my  being, 
Song  for  the  mate  and  the  nestling. 
Finer  and  sweeter  meaning 
May  possess  for  you ! 
Lifting  to  starry  summits, 
Filling  with  infinite  passion, 
While  the  witless  singer  broodeth 
In  the  darkness  and  the  dew ! 


Carved  on  the  rock  as  an  arrow 

To  point  your  path,  am  I : 

A  cloud  that  tells,  in  the  heavens, 

Which  way  the  breezes  fly : 

A  brook  that  is  born  in  the  meadows, 

And  wanders  at  will,  nor  guesses 

Whither  its  waters  hie : 

A  child  that  scatters  blossoms, 

Thoughtless  of  memoried  odors, 

Or  sweet  surprises  of  color, 

That  waken  when  you  go  by : 

A  bee-bird  of  the  woodland, 

That  finds  the  honeyed  hollows 

Of  ancient  oaks,  for  others,  — 

Even  as  these,  am  I ! 


Accept,  and  enjoy,  and  follow,  — 
Conquer  wherein  I  yield ! 


3io 


LATEST   LYRICS 


Make  yours  the  bright  conclusion, 

From  me  concealed ! 

Truth,  to  whom  will  possess  it, 

Beauty  to  whom  embraces, 

Song  and  its  inmost  secret, 

Life  and  its  unheard  music, 

To  whom  will  hear  and  know  them, 

Are  ever  revealed ! 


THE  TWO  HOMES 


My  home  was  seated  high  and  fair, 

Upon  a  mountain's  side; 
The  day  was  longest,  brightest  there ; 

Beneath,  the  world  was  wide. 
Across  its  blue,  embracing  zone 
The  rivers  gleamed,  the  cities  shone, 
And  over  the  edge  of  the  fading  rim 
I  saw  the  storms  in  the  distance  dim, 

And  the  flash  of  the  soundless  thun- 
der. 


But  weary  grew  the  sharp,  cold  wine 
Of  winds  that  never  kissed, 

The  changeless  green  of  fir  and  pine, 
The  gray  and  clinging  mist. 

Above  the  granite  sprang  no  bowers  ; 

The  soil  gave  low  and  scentless  flowers ; 

And  the  drone  and  din  of  the  water- 
fall 

Became  a  challenge,  a  taunting  call : 
"  'T  is  fair,  't  is  fair  in  the  valley !  " 


Of  all  the  homesteads  deep  and  far 

My  fancy  clung  to  one, 
Whose  gable  burned,  a  mellow  star, 

Touched  by  the  sinking  sun. 
Unseen  around,  but  not  unguessed, 
The  orchards  made  a  leafy  nest ; 
The  turf  before  it  was  thick,  I  knew, 
And    bees    were    busy    the    garden 
through, 

And  the  windows  were  dark  with 


IV 

"T  is  happier  there,  below,"  I  sighed: 
The  world  is  warm  and  near, 

And  closer  love  and  comfort  hide, 
That  cannot  reach  me  here. 

"Who  there  abides  must  be  so  blest 


He  '11  share  with  me  his  sheltered  nest, 
If  down  to  the  valley  I  should  go, 
Leaving  the  granite,   the   pines  and 
snow, 
And  the  winds  that  are   keen   as 
lances." 


I  wandered  down,  by  ridge  and  dell ; 

The  way  was  rough  and  long  : 
Though    earlier   shadows    round   me 
fell, 

I  cheered  them  with  my  song. 
The    world's    great    circle    narrower 

grew, 
Till  hedge  and  thicket  hid  the  blue  ; 
But  over  the  orchards,  near  at  hand, 
The  gable  shone  on  the  quiet  land, 

And  far  away  was  the  mountain  ! 

VI 

Then  came    the   master :    mournful- 
eyed 
And  stern  of  brow  was  he. 
"Oh,  planted  in  such  peace  !  "  I  cried, 

"  Spare  but  the  least  to  me  !  " 
"Who  seeks,"  he  said,  "  this  brooding 

haze, 
The  tameness  of  these  weary  days  ? 
The  highway's  dust,  the  glimmer  and 

heat, 
The    woods    that    fetter   the   young 
wind's  feet, 
And  hide  the  world  and  its  beauty  ? " 


He  stretched    his    hand;    he    looked 
afar 
With  eyes  of  old  desire : 
I  saw  my  home,  a  mellow  star 

That  held  the  sunset's  fire. 
"But  yonder  home,"  he  cried,   "how 

fair  ! 
Its  chambers  burn  like  gilded  air ; 
I  know  that  the  gardens  are  wild  as 

dreams, 
With  the  sweep  of  winds,  the  dash  of 
streams, 
And  the  pines  that  sound  as  an  an- 
them! 

VIII 

"So  quiet,  so  serenely  high 
It  sits,  when  clouds  are  furled, 

And  knows  the  beauty  of  the  sky, 
The  glory  of  the  world  ! 


IMPLORA   PACE 


3" 


TVho  there  abides  must  be  so  blest 
He  '11  share  with  me  that  lofty  crest, 
If  up  to  the  mountain  I  should  go, 
Leaving  the  dust  and  the  glare  be- 
low, 
And  the  weary  life  of  the  valley  ! " 

1873. 


IRIS 


I  am  born  from  the  womb  of  the  cloud 

And  the  strength  of  the  ardeut  sun, 
"When  the  winds  have  ceased  to  be 
loud, 

And  the  rivers  of  rain  to  run. 
Then  light,  on  my  sevenfold  arch, 

I  swing  in  the  silence  of  air, 
"While  the  vapors  beneath  me  march 

And  leave  the  sweet  earth  bare. 


For  a  moment,  I  hover  and  gleam 

On  the  skirts  of  the  sinking  storm ; 
And  I  die  in  the  bliss  of  the  beam 

That  gave  me  being  and  form. 
I  fade,  as  in  human  hearts 

The  rapture  that  mocks  the  will : 
I  pass,  as  a  drearn  departs 

That  cannot  itself  fulfil! 


Bevond  the  bridge  I  have  spanned 

The  fields  of  the  Poet  unfold, 
And  the  riches  of  Fairyland 

At  my  bases  of  misty  gold. 
I  keep  the  wealth  of  the  spheres 

Which  the  high  Gods  never  have 
won; 
And  I  coin,  from  their  airy  tears, 

The  diadem  of  the  sun ! 


For  some  have  stolen  the  grace 

That  is  hidden  in  rest  or  strife  ; 
And  some  have  copied  the  face 

Or  echoed  the  voice  of  Life  ; 
And  some  have  woven  of  sound 

A  chain  of  the  sweetest  control, 
And  some  have  fabled  or  found 

The  key  to  the  human  soul : 


But  I,  from  the  blank  of  the  air 
And  the  white  of  the  barren  beam, 


Have  wrought  the  colors  that  flare 
In  the  forms  of  a  painter's  dream. 

I  gather  the  souls  of  the  flowers, 
And  the  sparks  of  the  gems,  to  me 

Till  pale  are  the  blossoming  bowers, 
And  dim  the  chameleon  sea ! 

VI 

By  the  soul's  bright  sun,  the  eye, 

I  am  thrown  on  the  artist's  brain  ; 
He  follows  me,  and  I  fly ; 

He  pauses,  I  stand  again. 
O'er  the  reach  of  the  painted  world 

My  chorded  colors  I  hold, 
On  a  canvas  of  cloud  impearled 

Drawn  with  a  brush  of  gold  ! 

VII 

If  I  lure,  as  a  mocking  sprite, 

I  give,  as  a  goddess  bestows, 
The  red,  with  its  soul  of  might, 

And  the  blue,  with  its  cool  repose ; 
The  yellow  that  beckons  and  beams, 

And  the  gentler  children  they  bear 
For  the  portal  of  Art's  high  dreams 

Is  builded  of  Light  and  Air! 

1872. 


IMPLORA  PACE 

The   clouds  that  stoop  from  yonder 
sky 
Discharge  their  burdens,   and  are 
free; 
The  streams  that  take  them  hasten  by, 
To  find  relief  in  lake  and  sea. 

The  wildest  wind  in  vales  afar 

Sleeps,  pillowed  on  its  ruffled  wings ; 

And  song,  through  many  a  stormy 
bar, 
Beats  into  silence  on  the  strings ! 

And  love  o'ercomes  his  young  unrest, 
And  first  ambition's  flight  is  o'er  ; 

And  doubt  is  cradled  on  the  breast 
Of    perfect  faith,    and   speaks  no 
more. 

Our  dreams   and    passions   cease   to 
dare, 
And    homely   patience    learns    the 
part; 
Yet  still  some  keen,  pursuing  care 
Forbids  consent  to  brain  and  heart. 


312 


LATEST   LYRICS 


The  gift  unreached,  beyond  the  hand ; 

The  fault  in  all  of  beauty  won  ; 
The  mildew  of  the  harvest  land, 

The  spots  upon  the  risen  sun ! 

And  still  some  cheaper  service  claims 
The  will  that  leaps  to  loftier  call : 

Some  cloud  is  cast  on  splendid  aims, 
On  power  achieved  some  common 
thrall. 

To  spoil  each  beckoning  victory, 
A  thousand  pygmy  hands  are  thrust ; 

And,  round  each,  height  attained,  we 
see 
Our  ether  dim  with  lower  dust. 

Ah,  could  we  breathe  some  peaceful 
air 

And  all  save  purpose  there  forget, 
Till  eager  courage  learn  to  bear 

The  gadfly's  sting,  the  pebble's  fret ! 

Let  higher  goal  and  harsher  way, 
To  test  our  virtue,  then  combine  ! 

'T  is  not  for  idle  ease  we  pray, 
But  freedom  for  our  task  divine. 

1872. 


PENN  CALVIN 


Seakch  high  and  low,  search  up  and 
down, 

By  light  of  stars  or  sun, 
And  of   all  the  good   folks  of   our 
town 

There 's  like  Penn  Calvin  none. 
He  lightly  laughs  when  all  condemn, 

He  smiles  when  others  pray  ; 
And  what  is  sorest  truth  to  them 

To  him  is  idle  play. 

ii 

"Penn  Calvin,  lift,  as  duty  bids, 

The  load  we  all  must  bear !  " 
He  only  lifts  his  languid  lids, 

And  says  :  ' '  The  morn  is  fair  !  " 
"Learn  while  you  may!  for  Life  is 
stern, 

And  Art,  alas  !  is  long." 
He    hums    and    answers  :    "Yes,    I 
learn 

The  cadence  of  a  song." 


"The    world  is   dark  with   human 
woe ; 

Man  eats  of  bitter  food." 
"The  world,"  he  says,  "  is  all  aglow 

With  beauty,  bliss,  and  good  !  " 
"  To  crush  the  senses  you  must  strive, 

The  beast  of  flesh  destroy  !  " 
"  God  gave  this  body,  all  alive, 

And  every  sense  is  joy  ! " 

IV 

"Nay,   these  be  heathen  words  we 
hear  ; 

The  faith  they  teach  is  flown,  — 
A  mist  that  clings  to  temples  drear 

And  altars  overthrown." 
"I   reck   not    how   nor   whence    it 
came," 

He  answers;  "  I  possess  : 
If  heathens  felt  and  owned  the  same, 

How  bright  was  heathenesse  ! " 


"Though    you  be   stubborn    to    be- 
lieve, 

Yet  learn  to  grasp  and  hold  : 
There 's  power  and  honor  to  achieve, 

And  royal  rule  of  gold  !  " 
Penn  Calvin  plucked  an  open  rose 

And  carolled  to  the  sky : 
"  Shine,  sun  of  Day,  until  its  close,  — 

They  live,  and  so  do  I  ! " 

VI 

His  eyes  are  clear  as  they  were  kissed 

By  some  unrisen  dawn  ; 
Our  grave  and  stern  philanthropist 

Looks  sad,  and  passes  on. 
Our  pastor  scowls,  the  pious  flock 

Avert  their  heads,  and  flee  ; 
For  pestilence  or  earthquake  shock 

Less  dreadful  seems  than  he. 

VII 

But  all  the  children  round  him  cling, 

Depraved  as  they  were  born  ; 
And  vicious  men  his  praises  sing, 

"Whom  he  forgets  to  scorn. 
Penn    Calvin's    strange    indifference 
gives 

Our  folks  a  grievous  care  : 
He 's  simply  glad  because  he  lives, 

And  glad  the  world  is  fair  ! 

1871. 


SUMMER   NIGHT 


3i; 


SUMMER  NIGHT 


VARIATIONS  OX   CERTAIN   MELODIES 


I 


ANDANTE 

Under  the  full-blown  linden  and  the 
plane. 
That  link  their  arms  above 
In  mute,  mysterious  love, 
I  hear  the  strain  ! 
Is  it  the  far  postilion's  horn, 
Mellowed  by  starlight,    floating    up 
the  valley, 
Or    song    of   love-sick    peasant, 

borne 
Across  the  fields  of  fragrant  corn, 
And  poplar-guarded  alley  ? 
Now  from  the  woodbine  and  the  un- 
seen rose 
"What  new  delight  is  showered  ? 
The  warm  wings  of  the  air 
Drop  into  downy  indolence  and  close, 

So  sweetly  overpowered : 
But  nothing  sleeps,  though  rest  seems 
everywhere. 


II 


ADAGIO 

Something  came    with  the  falling 
dusk, 
Came,  and  quickened  to  soft  un- 
rest: 
Something    floats    in  the    linden's 
musk, 
And  throbs  in  the  brook  on  the 
meadow's  breast. 
Shy  Spirit  of  Love,  awake,  awake! 
All  things  feel  thee, 
And  all  reveal  thee : 
The  night  was  given  for  thy  sweet 
sake. 
Toil  slinks  aside,  and  leaves  to  thee 

the  land  ; 
The  heart  beats  warmer  for  the  idle 
hand ; 
The  timid  tongue    unlearns    its 
wrong, 
And  speech  is  turned  to  song  ; 
The  shaded  eyes  are  braver ; 
And  every  life,   like  flowers  whose 
scent  is  dumb 
Till  dew  and  darkness  come, 
Gives  forth  a  tender  savor. 


•  O,  each  so  lost  in  all,  who  may 
resist 
The  plea  of  lips  unkissed, 
Or,  hearing  such  a  strain, 
Though  kissed  a  thousand  times,  kiss 
not  again ! 


Ill 

APPASSIONATO 

Was  it  a  distant  flute 
That  breathed,  and  now  is  mute? 
Or  that  lost  soul  men  call  the  nightin- 
gale, 
In  bosky  coverts  hidden, 
Filling  with  sudden  passion  all  the 
vale? 
O,  chant  again  the  tale, 
And  call  on  her  whose  name  returns, 
unbidden, 
A  longing  and  a  dream, 

Adelai'da ! 
For  while  the  sprinkled  stars 
Sparkle,  and  wink,  and  gleam, 
Adelai'da ! 
Darkness  and  perfume  cleave  the  un- 
known bars 
Between  the  enamored   heart  and 
thee, 
And  thou  and  I  are  free, 
Adelai'da! 
Less  than  a  name,  a  melody,  art  thou, 
A  hope,  a  haunting  vow  ! 
The  passion-cloven 
Spirit  of  thy  Beethoven 
Claimed  with  less  ardor  than  I  claim 
thee  now, 

Adelai'da  ! 
Take  form,  at  last:  from  these  o'er- 
bending  branches 
Descend,  or  from  the  grass  arise  ! 

I  scarce  shall  see  thine  eyes, 
Or  know  what  blush  the  shadow 
stanches ; 
But  all  my  being's  empty  urn  shall  be 
Filled  with  thy  mystery  ! 


IY 

CAPRICCIOSO 

Nay,  nay  !  the  ^longings  ten- 
der, 
The    fear,   the  marvel,   and  the 
mystery, 


H 


LATEST   LYRICS 


The  shy,   delicious  dread,  the  unre- 
served surrender, 
Give,  if  thou  canst,  to  me ! 

For  I  would  be, 
In  this  expressive  languor, 
While  night  conceals,  the  wooed  and 

not  the  wooer ; 
Shaken  with    supplication,  keen    as 
anger ; 
Pursued,  and  thou  pursuer ! 
Plunder  my  bosom  of  its  hoarded  fire, 
And  so  assail  me, 
That  coy  denial  fail  me, 
Slain  by  the  mirrored  shape  of  my  de- 
sire! 
Though  life  seem  overladen 
With  conquered  bliss,  it  only  craves 

the  more : 
Teach  me  the  other  half  of  passion's 
lore  — 
Be    thou    the    man,    and    I   the 
maiden ! 

Ah  !  come, 
While  earth  is  waiting,  heaven  is 
dumb, 

And  blossom-sighs 
So  penetrate  the  indolent  air, 
The  very  stars  grow  fragrant  in  the 
skies  ! 

Arise, 
And  thine  approach  shall  make 
me  fair, 
Thy  borrowed  pleading  all  too  soon 
subdue  me, 
Till  both  forget  the  part ; 
And  she  who  failed  to  woo  me 
So  caught,  is  held  to  my  impatient 
heart ! 

1873. 


THE  GUESTS  OF  NIGHT 

I  ride  in  a  gloomy  land, 

I  travel  a  ghostly  shore,  — 
Shadows  on  either  hand, 

Darkness  behind  and  before; 
Veils  of  the  summer  night 

Dusking  the  woods  I  know; 
A  whisper  haunts  the  height, 

And  the  rivulet  croons  below. 

A  waft  from  the  roadside  bank 
Tells  where  the  wild-rose  nods; 

The  hollows  are  heavy  and  dank 
With  the  steam  of  the  golden-rods: 


Incense  of  Night  and  Death, 

Odors  of  Life  and  Day, 
Meet  and  mix  in  a  breath, 

Drug  me,  and  lapse  away. 

Is  it  the  hand  of  the  Past, 

Stretched  from  its  open  tomb, 
Or  a  spell  from  thy  glamoury  cast, 

O  mellow  and  mystic  gloom  ? 
All,  wherein  I  have  part, 

All  that  was  loss  or  gain, 
Slips  from  the  clasping  heart, 

Breaks  from  the  grasping  brain. 

Lo,  what  is  left  ?    I  am  bare 

As  a  new-born  soul,  — I  am  naught; 
My  deeds  are  as  dust  in  air, 

My  words  are  as  ghosts  of  thought. 
I  ride  through  the  night  alone, 

Detached  from  the  life  that  seemed, 
And  the  best  I  have  felt  or  known 

Is  less  than  the  least  I  dreamed. 

But  the  Night,  like  Agrippa's  glass, 

Now,  as  I  question  it,  clears; 
Over  its  vacancy  pass 

The  shapes  of  the  crowded  years ; 
Meanest  and  most  august, 

Hated  or  loved,  I  see 
The  dead  that  have  long  been  dust, 

The  living,  so  dead  to  me  ! 

Place  in  the  world's  applause? 

Nay,  there  is  nothing  there ! 
Strength  from  unyielding  laws  ? 

A  gleam,  and  the  glass  is  bare. 
The  lines  of  a  life  in  song  ? 

Faint  runes  on  the  rocks  of  time  ? 
I  see  but  a  formless  throng 

Of  shadows  that  fall  or  climb. 

What  else  ?    Am  I  then  despoiled 

Of     the     garments    I    wove    and 
wore  ? 
Have  I  so  refrained  and  toiled, 

To  find  there  is  naught  in  store  ? 
I  have  loved, — I  love  !     Behold, 

How  the  steady  pictures  rise ! 
And  the   shadows  are  pierced  with 
gold 

From  the  stars  of  immortal  eyes. 

Nearest  or  most  remote, 

But  dearest,  hath  none  delayed ; 
And  the  spirits  of  kisses  float 

O'er  the  lips  that  never  fade. 


CENTENNIAL    HYMN 


3*5 


The  Night  each  guest  denies 
Of  the  hand  or  haughty  brain, 

But  the  loves  that  were,  arise, 
And  the  loves  that  are,  remain. 
1871. 


SONNET 

Who,  harnessed  in  his  mail  of  Self, 

demands 
To  be  men's  master  and  their  sovran 

guide  ?  — 
Proclaims  his  place,  and  by  sole  right 

of  pride 
A  candidate  for  love  and  reverence 

stands, 
As  if  the  power  within  his  empty 

hands 
Had  fallen  from  the  sky,  with  all  be- 
side, 
So  oft  to  longing  and  to  toil  denied, 
That  makes  theleaders  and  the  lords 

of  lands  ? 
He  who  would  lead  must  first  himself 

be  led; 
"Who  would  be  loved  be  capable  of 

love 
Beyond  the  utmost  he  receives  ;  who 

claims 
The  rod  of    power  must  first  have 

bowed  his  head, 
And,    being  honored,   honor  what 's 

above : 
This  know   the  men  who  leave  the 

world  their  names. 

1872. 


TO  MARIE 

WITH  A   COPY    OF     THE    TRANSLATION 
OP   FAUST 

This  plant,  it  may  be,  grew  from 
vigorous  seed, 

"Within  the  field  of  study  set  by 
Song; 

Sent  from  its  sprouting  germ,  per- 
chance, a  throng 

Of  roots  even  to  that  depth  where 
passions  breed  ; 

Chose  its  own  time,  and  of  its  place 
took  heed  ; 

Sucked  fittest  nutriment  to  make  it 
strong :  — 


But  you  from  every  wayward  season's 
wrong 

Did  guard  it,  showering,  at  its  chang- 
ing need, 

Or  dew  of  sympathy,  or  summer  glow 

Of  apprehension  of  the  finer  toil, 

And  gave  it,  so,  the  nature  that  en- 
dures. 

Our  secret  this,  the  world  can  never 
know: 

You  were  the  breeze  and  sunshine,  I 
the  soil : 

The  form  is  mine,   color    and    odor 
yours  ! 
1875. 


CENTENNIAL  HYTRIN 

O  God  of  Peace!  now  o'er  the  world 
The  armies  rest,  with  banners  furled : 
O  God  of  Toil !  beneath  thy  sight 
The  toiling  nations  here  unite  ; 
O  God  of  Beauty,  bend  and  see 
The  Beautiful  that  shadows  thee ! 

Our  land,  young  hostess  of  the  West, 
Now  first  in  festal  raiment  dressed, 
Invites  from  every  realm  and  clime 
Her  sisters  of  the  elder  time, 
And  bare  of  shield,  ungirt  by  sword, 
Bids  welcome  to  her  bounteous  board. 

Thy  will,  dear  Father,  gave  to  each 
The  force  of  hand,  the  fire  of  speech  ; 
Thy  guidance  led  from  low  to  high, 
Made  failure  still  in  triumph  die, 
And  set  for  all,  in  fields  apart. 
The  oak  of  Toil,  the  rose  of  Art ! 

What  though,  within  thy  plan  sub- 
lime, 
Our  eras  are  the  dust  of  time, 
Y'et  unto  later  good  ordain 
This  rivalry  of  heart  and  brain, 
And  bless,  through  power  and  wisdom 

won, 
The  peaceful  cycle  here  begun  ! 

Let  each  with  each  his  bounty  spend, 
Now  knowledge  borrow,  beauty  lend ! 
Let  each  in  each  more  nobly  see 
Thyself  in  him,  his  faith  in  Thee  : 
All  conquering  power  Thy  gift  divine, 
All  glory  but  the  seal  of  Thine  1 

February,  1876. 


316 


LATEST   LYRICS 


THE   SONG  OF  1876 


Waken,  voice  of  the  Land's  Devotion ! 

Spirit  of  freedom,  awaken  all ! 
Ring,  ye  shores,  to  the  Song  of  Ocean, 
Rivers,    answer,    and  mountains, 
call  ! 
The  golden  day  has  come : 
Let  every  tongue  be  dumb, 
That  sounded  its  malice  or  murmured 
its  fears ; 

She  hath  won  her  story  ; 
She  wears  her  glory  ; 
We  crown  her  the  Land  of  a  Hundred 
Years ! 


Out  of  darkness  and  toil  and  danger 
Into  the  light  of  Victory's  day, 
Help  to  the  weak,  and  home  to  the 
stranger, 
Freedom  to  all,  she  hath  held  her 
way! 
Now  Europe's  orphans  rest 
Upon  her  mother-breast : 
The  voices  of  Nations  are  heard  in 
the  cheers  ; 

That  shall  cast  upon  her 
New  love  and  honor, 
And  crown  her  the  Queen  of  a  Hun- 
dred Years ! 


North  and  South,  we  are  met  as  bro- 
thers : 
East  and  West,  we  are  wedded  as 
one! 
Right  of  each  shall  secure   our   mo- 
ther's ; 
Child  of  each  is  her  faithful  son  ! 
We  give  Thee  heart  and  hand, 
Our  glorious  native  Land, 
For  battle  has  tried  thee,  and  time  en- 
dears : 

We  will  write  thy  story, 
And  keep  thy  glory, 
As  pure  as  of  old  for  a  Thousand 
Years  ! 

1876. 


IMPROVISATIONS 


Through  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night 
My  fancies  fly  to  thee  : 


Through  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night, 

Alone,  I  cry  to  thee. 

For  the  stars  bring  presages 
Of  love,  and  of  love's  delight : 

Let  them  bear  my  messages 
Through  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night ! 

In  the  golden  porch  of  the  morn 

Thou  com'st  anew  to  me  : 
In  the  golden  porch  of  the  morn, 

Say,  art  thou  true  to  me  ? 

If  dreams  have  shaken  thee 
With  the  call  thou  canst  not  scorn, 

Let  Love  awaken  thee 
In  the  golden  porch  of  the  morn  ! 


II 

The  rose  of  your  cheek  is  precious  ; 

Your  eyes  are  warmer  than  wine  ; 
You  catch  men's  souls  in  the  meshes 

Of  curls  that  ripple  and  shine  — 
But,  ah  !  not  mine. 

Your  lips  are  a  sweet  persuasion ; 

Your  bosom  a  sleeping  sea  ; 
Your  voice,  with  its  fond  evasion, 

Is  a  call  and  a  charm  to  me  ; 
But  I  am  free  ! 

As  the  white  moon  lifts  the  waters, 

You  lift  the  passions,  and  lead  ; 
As  a  chieftainess  proud  with  slaugh- 
ters, 
You  smile  on  the  hearts  that  bleed: 
But  I  take  heed  I 


III 

Come  to  me,  Lalage  ! 

Girl  of  the  flying  feet, 

Girl  of  the  tossing  hair 

And  the  red  mouth,  small  and  sweet: 

Less  of  the  earth  than  air, 

So  witchingly  fond  and  fair, 

Lalage ! 

Touch  me,  Lalage ! 

Girl  of  the  soft  white  hand, 

Girl  of  the  low  white  brow 

And  the  roseate  bosom  band  ; 

Bloom  from  an  orchard  bough 

Less  downy-soft  than  thou, 

Lalage! 

Kiss  me,  Lalage ! 

Girl  of  the  fragrant  breath, 


IMPROVISATIONS 


3*7 


Girl  of  the  sun  of  May  ; 

As  a  bird  that  nutters  in  death, 

My  fluttering  pulses  say  : 

If  thou  be  Death,  yet  stay, 

Lalase! 


IV 

What  if  I  couch  in  the  grass,  or  list- 
lessly rock  on  the  waters  ? 

If  in  the  market  I  stroll,  sit  by  the 
beakers  of  wine  ? 

Witched  by  the  fold  of  a  cloud,  the 
flush  of  a  meadow  in  blos- 
som, 

Soothed  by  the  amorous  airs,  touched 
by  the  lips  of  the  dew  ? 

First  must  be  color  and  odor,  the 
simple,  unmingled  sensation, 

Then,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  apples 
and  honey  and  grain. 

You,  reversing  the  order,  your  barren 
and  withering  branches 

Vainly  will  shake  in  the  winds,  mine 
hanging  heavy  with  gold! 


Though  thy  constant  love  I  share, 

Yet  its  gift  is  rarer  ; 
In  my  youth  I  thought  thee  fair ; 

Thou  art  older  and  fairer  ! 

Full  of  more  than  young  delight 
Now  day  and  night  are  ; 

For  the  presence,  then  so  bright, 
Is  closer,  brighter. 

In  the  haste  of  youth  we  miss 

Its  best  of  blisses: 
Sweeter  than  the  stolen  kiss, 

Are  the  granted  kisses. 

Dearer  than  the  words  that  hide 

The  love  abiding, 
Are  the  words  that  fondly  chide, 

When  love  needs  chiding. 

Higher  than  the  perfect  song 
For  which  love  longeth, 

Is  the  tender  fear  of  wrong, 
That  never  wrongeth. 

She  whom  youth  alone  makes  dear 
May  awhile  seem  nearer  : 

Thou  art  mine  so  many  a  year. 
The  older,  the  dearer! 


VI 


A  grass-blade  is  my  warlike  lance, 

A  rose-leaf  is  my  shield  ; 
Beams  of  the  sun  are,  every  one 

My  chargers  for  the  field. 

The  morning  gives  me  golden  steeds, 
The  moon  gives  silver-white  ; 

The  stars  drop  down,  my  helm  to 
crown. 
When  I  go  forth  to  fight. 

Against  me  ride  in  iron  mail 

The  squadrons  of  the  foe : 
The  bucklers  flash,  the  maces  crash, 

The  haughty  trumpets  blow. 

One  touch,  and  all,  with  armor  cleft, 

Before  me  turn  and  yield. 
Straight  on  I  ride :  the  world  is  wide  ; 

A  rose-leaf  is  my  shield ! 

Then  dances  o'er  the  waterfall 

The  rainbow,  in  its  glee  ; 
The  daisy  sings,  the  lily  rings 

Her  bells  of  victory. 

So  am  I  armed  where'er  I  go, 
And  mounted  night  or  day : 

Who  shall  oppose  the  conquering  rose, 
And  who  the  sunbeam  slay? 


VII 

The  star  o'  the  morn  is  whitest, 
The  bosom  of  dawn  is  brightest ; 

The  dew  is  sown, 

And  the  blossom  blown 
Wherein  thou,  my  Dear,  delightest. 

Hark,  I  have  risen  before  thee, 

That  the  spell  of  the  day  be  o'er  thee ; 

That  the  flush  of  my  love 

May  fall  from  above, 
And,  mixed  with  the  moon,  adore  thee ! 

Dark  dreams  must  now  forsake  thee, 
And  the  bliss  of  thy  being  take  thee ! 

Let  the  beauty  of  morn 

In  thine  eyes  be  born, 
And  the  thought  of  me  awake  thee ! 

Come  forth  to  hear  thy  praises, 
Which  the  wakening  world  upraises ; 
Let  thy  hair  be  spun 
With  the  gold  o'  the  sun, 
And  thy  feet  be  kissed  by  the  daisies! 


31* 


LATEST   LYRICS 


VIII 

Near  in  the  forest 

I  know  a  glade  ; 
Under  the  tree-tops 

A  secret  shade ! 

Vines  are  the  curtains, 
Blossoms  the  floor ; 

Voices  of  waters 
Sing  evermore. 

There,  when  the  sunset's 

Lances  of  gold 
Pierce,  or  the  moonlight 

Is  silvery  cold, 

Would  that  an  angel 

Led  thee  to  me  — 
So,  out  of  loneliness 

Love  should  be ! 

Never  the  breezes 

Should  lisp  what  we  say, 
Never  the  waters 

Our  secret  betray ! 

Silence  and  shadow, 
After,  might  reign ; 

But  the  old  life  be  ours 
Never  again ! 


IX 

What  if  we  lose  the  seasons 
That  seem  of  our  happiest  choice, 

That  Life  is  fuller  of  reasons 
To  sorrow  than  rejoice, 

That  Time  is  richer  in  treasons, 
And  Hope  has  a  faltering  voice  ? 

The    dreams    wherewith    we    were 
dowered 
Were  gifts  of  an  ignorant  brain ; 
The  truth  has  at  last  overpowered 
The  visions  we  clung  to  in  vain : 
But  who  would  resist,  as  a  coward. 
The  knowledge  that  cometh  from 
pain? 

For  the  love,  as  a  flower  of  the  meadow, 
The  love  that  stands  firm  as  a  tree  — 

For  the  stars  that  have  vanished  in 
shadow, 
The  daylight,  enduring  and  free  — 

For  a  dream  of  the  dim  El  Dorado, 
A  world  to  inhabit  have  we  ! 


Heart,  in  my  bosom  beating 
Fierce,  as  a  power  at  bay ! 
Ever  thy  rote  repeating 
Louder,  and  then  retreating, 
Who  shall  thy  being  sway? 

Over  my  will  and  under, 

Equally  king  and  slave, 
Sometimes  I  hear  thee  thunder, 
Sometimes  falter  and  blunder 
Close  to  the  waiting  grave ! 

Oft,  in  the  beautiful  season. 

Kestless  thou  art,  and  wild ; 
Oft,  with  never  a  reason, 
Turnest  and  doest  me  treason, 

Treating  the  man  as  a  child ! 

Cold,  when  passion  is  burning, 
Quick,  when  I  sigh  for  rest, 
Kindler  of  perished  yearning, 
Curb  and  government  spurning, 
Thou  art  lord  of  the  breast ! 


XI 

Fill,  for  we  drink  to  Labor  ! 

And  Labor,  you  know,  is  Prayer : 
I  '11  be  as  grand  as  my  neighbor 
Abroad,  and  at  home  as  bare  ! 
Debt,  and  bother,  and  hurry! 

Others  are  burdened  so : 
Here 's  to  the  goddess  Worry, 
And    here's    to    the    goddess 
Show! 

Reckless  of  what  comes  after, 
Silent  of  whence  we  come : 
Splendor  and  feast  and  laughter 
Make  the  questioners  dumb. 
Debt,  and  bother,  and  hurry ! 

Nobody  needs  to  know : 
Here's  to  the  goddess  Worry, 
And    here's     to     the    goddess 
Show! 

Fame  is  what  you  have  taken, 
Character 's  what  you  give : 
When  to  this  truth  you  waken, 
Then  you  begin  to  live  ! 
Debt,  and  bother,  and  hurry 

Others  have  risen  so  : 
Here's  to  the  goddess  Worry, 
And    here 's    to    the    goddess 
Show  ! 


YOUTH 


319 


Honor 's  a  thing  for  derision, 

Knowledge  a  thing  reviled  ; 
Love  is  a  vanishing  vision, 
Faith  is  the  toy  of  a  child  ! 
Debt,  and  bother,  and  hurry  ! 

Honesty 's  old  and  slow . 
Here 's  to  the  goddess  Worry, 
And    here's    to    the    goddess 
Show ! 

1872-1875. 


MARIGOLD 

Homely,  forgotten  flower, 
Under  the  rose's  bower, 

Plain  as  a  weed, 
Thou,  the  half-summer  long, 
Waitest  and  waxest  strong, 
Even  as  waits  a  song 

Till  men  shall  heed. 

Then,  when  the  lilies  die, 
And  the  carnations  lie 

In  spicy  death, 
Over  thy  bushy  sprays 
Burst  with  a  sudden  blaze 
Stars  of  the  August  days, 

With  Autumn's  breath. 

Fain  would  the  calyx  hold ; 
But  splits,  and  half  the  gold 

Spills  lavishly  : 
Frost,  that  the  rose  appalls, 
Wastes  not  thy  coronals, 
Till  Summer's  lustre  falls 

And  fades  in  thee. 

1876. 


WILL  AND  LAW 

Will,  in  his  lawless  mirth, 

Cried:     "Mine    be    the     sphere    of 

Earth! 
Mine  be  the  hills  and  seas, 
Night  calm  and  morning  breeze, 
Shadowed  and  sun-lit  hours, 
Passions,  delights,  and  powers, 
Each  in  its  turn  to  choose, 
All  to  reject  or  use  — 
Thus  myself  to  fulfil, 
For  I  am  Will!" 

Nature,  with  myriad  mouth, 
Answered  from  "North  and  South: 


Back  to  the  nest  again, 
Dream  of  thy  idle  brain  ! 
Eyes  shall  open,  and  see 
Power  attained  through  me 
Mine  the  increasing  days, 
Mine  the  delight  that  stays, 
Service  from  each  to  draw  - 
For  I  am  Law !  " 

1876. 


TRUE  LOVE'S  TIME   OF  DAY 

WnEN  shall  I  find  you,  sweetheart, 
That  shall  be  and  must  be  mine  ? 

I  seek,  though  the  world  divides  us, 
And  I  send  you  the  secret  sign. 

There  's  blood  in  the  veins  of  morn- 
ing, 

So  fresh  it  may  well  deceive, 
When  man  goes  forth  as  Adam, 

And  woman  awaits  him  as  Eve. 

There 's  an  elvish  spell  in  twilight 
When  the  bats  of  Fancy  fly, 

And  sense  is  bound  by  a  question, 
And  Fate  by  the  quick  reply. 

And  the  moon  is  an  old  enchantress, 
With  her  snares  of    glimmer  and 
shade, 

That  have  ever  been  false  and  fatal 
To  the  dreams  of  man  and  maid. 

But  I  '11  meet  you  at  noonday,  sweet- 
heart, 

In  the  billowy  fields  of  grain, 
When  the  sun  is  hot  for  harvest, 

And  the  roses  athirst  for  rain. 

With  the  daylight's  truth  on    your 
forehead, 
And  the  daylight's   love  in    your 
eye, 
I'll  kiss  you  without  a  question. 
And  you  '11  kiss  me  without  reply. 

1877. 


YOUTH 

Child  with  the  butterfly, 
Boy  with  the  ball, 

Youth  with  the  maiden  — 
Still  I  am  all. 


320 


LATEST   LYRICS 


Wisdom  of  manhood 
Keeps  the  old  joy; 

Conquered  illusions 
Leave  me  a  boy. 

Falsehood  and  baseness 
Teach  me  but  this : 

Earth  still  is  beautiful, 
Being  is  bliss. 

Locks  to  my  temples 
Hoary  may  cling ; 

'T  is  but  as  daisies 
On  meadows  of  spring. 

1876. 


THE  IMP  OF  SPRINGTIME 

Over  the  eaves  where  the  sunbeams 
fall 
Twitters  the  swallow ; 
I  hear  from  the  mountains  the  cataract 
call: 
Follow,  oh,  follow ! 

Buds  on  the  bushes  and  blooms  on  the 
mead 
Swiftly  are  swelling; 
Hark!  the  Spring whispereth :  "Make 
ye  with  speed 
Ready  my  dwelling." 

Out  of  the  tremulous  blue  of  the  air 

Calling  before  her, 
Who  was  it  bade  me  "Awake  and 
prepare, 

Thou  mine  adorer !  " 

"Leave  me,"  I  said  ;  "I  have  known 
thee  of  old, 
Love  the  annoyer, 
Arming,  at  last,  with  thine  arrows  of 
gold, 
Time,  the  Destroyer." 

"Follow,"  he  laughed,   "where  the 
bliss  of  the  earth 
Wooes  thee,  compelling; 
Yet  in  the  Spring,  and  her  thousand- 
fold birth, 
I,  too,  am  dwelling." 

Out  of  the  buds  he  was  peeping,  and 
sang 
Soft  with  the  swallow  ; 


Yea,  and  he  called  where  the  cataract 
sprang  : 

Follow,  oh,  follow  ! 
Yain  to  defy,  or  evade,  or,  in  sooth, 

Bid  him  to  leave  me ! 
But  his  deception  is  dearer  than  truth : 

Let  him  deceive  me  ! 

1878. 


A  LOYER'S  TEST 

I  sat  to-day  beneath  the  pine 

And  saw  the  long  lake  shine. 
The  wind  was  weary,  and  the  day 

Sank  languidly  away 
Behind  the  forest's  purple  rim: 
The  sun  was  fair  for  me,  I  lived  for 
him! 

I  did  not  miss  you.    All  was  sweet, 

Sky,  earth,  and  soul  complete 
In  harmony,  which  could  afford 
No  more,  nor  spoil  the  chord. 
Could  I  be  blest,  and  you  afar, 
Were  other  I,  or  you,  than  what  we  are  ? 

The  sifted  silver  of  the  night 

Rained  down  a  strange  delight ; 
The  moon's  moist  beams  on  meadows 
made 
Pale  bars  athwart  the  shade, 
And  murmurs  crept  from  tree  to  tree, 
Mysterious  whispers  —  not  from  you 
to  me! 

I    stirred    the  embers,   roused  the 
brand 
And  mused :  on  either  hand 
The  pedigree  of  human  thought 

Sang,  censured, cheered,  or  taught. 
Pausing  at  each  Titanic  line, 
I  caught  no  echo  of  your  soul  to  mine ! 


At  last,  when  life  recast  its  form 

To  passive  rest  and  warm, 
Ere  the  soft,  lingering  senses  cease 

In  sleep's  half -conscious  peace, 
The  wish  I  might  have  fashioned 
died 
In  dreams  that  never  brought  you  to 
my  side ! 

Farewell !  my  nature's  highest  stress 
Mine  equal  shall  possess. 


A   FRIEND'S   GREETING 


321 


'T  is  easier  to  renounce,  or  wait, 

Haply,  the  perfect  fate. 
My  coldness  is  the  haughty  fire 
That  naught  consumes  except  its  full 
desire ! 

1874. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER 

Learn  to  live,  and  live  to  learn, 
Ignorance  like  a  fire  doth  burn, 
Little  tasks  make  large  return. 

In  thy  labors  patient  be, 
Afterward,  released  and  free, 
Nature  will  be  bright  to  thee. 

Toil,  when  willing,  groweth  less  ; 
Always  play  "  may  seem  to  bless, 
Yet  the  end  is  weariness. 

Live  to  learn,  and  learn  to  live, 
Only  this  content  can  give  ; 
Reckless  joys  are  fugitive  ! 

1872. 


A  FRIEND'S  GREETING 

TO   J.    G.    WHITTD3R,    FOR    HIS   SEVEN- 
TIETH BIRTHDAY 

Snow-bound  for  earth,  but  summer- 
souled  for  thee, 
Thy  natal  morning  shines : 
Hail,   Friend  and    Poet.      Give  thy 
hand  to  me, 
And  let  me  read  its  lines  ! 

For    skilled    in    Fancy's    palmistry 
am  I, 
When  years  have  set  their  crown ; 
TVhen   Life  gives  light    to  read   its 
secrets  by, 
And  deed  explains  renown. 

So,  looking  backward  from  thy  seven- 
tieth year 
On  service  grand  and  free, 
The  pictures  of  thy  spirit's  Past  are 
clear, 
And  each  interprets  thee. 

I  see  thee,  first, on  hills  our  Aryan  sires 
In  Time's  lost  morning  knew, 


Kindling,  as  priest,  the  lonely  altar- 
fires 
That  from  Earth's  darkness  grew. 

Then,  wise  with  secrets  of  Chaldaean 
lore, 

In  high  Akkadian  fane  ; 
Or  pacing  slow  by  Egypt's  river-shore, 

In  Thothmes'  glorious  reign. 

I  hear  thee,  wroth  with  all  iniquities 
That  Judah's  kings  betrayed, 

Preach  from  Ain-Jidi's  rock  thy  God's 
decrees, 
Or  Mamre's  terebinth  shade. 

And,  ah!  —  most  piteous  vision  of  the 
Past, 

Drawn  by  thy  being's  law, 
I  see  thee,  martyr,  in  the  arena  cast, 

Beneath  the  lion's  paw. 

Yet,  afterwards,  how  rang  thy  sword 
upon 
The  Paynim  helm  and  shield  ! 
How  shone  with  Godfrey,  and  at  As- 
kalon, 
Thy  white  plume  o'er  the  field ! 

Strange    contradiction  !  —  where    the 
sand-waves  spread 
The  boundless  desert  sea, 
The  Bedouin  spearmen  found  their 
destined  head, 
Their  dark-eyed  chief  —  in  thee ! 

And  thou  wert  friar  in  Cluny's  saintly 
cell, 
And  Skald  by  Norway's  foam, 
Ere  fate  of  Poet  fixed  thy  soul,  to 
dwell 
In  this  New  England  home. 

Here  art  thou  Poet,  —  more  than  war- 
rior, priest; 
And  here  thy  quiet  years 
Yield  more  to  us  than   sacrifice   or 
feast, 
Or  clash  of  swords  or  spears. 

The  faith  that  lifts,  the  courage  that 
sustains, 
These  thou  wert  sent  to  teach : 
Hot  blood  of  battle,  beating  in  thy 
veins, 
Is  turned  to  gentle  speech. 


322 


LATEST   LYRICS 


Not  less,  but  more,  than  others  hast 
thou  striven ; 
Thy  victories  remain : 
The  scars  of  ancient  hate,  long  since 
forgiven, 
Have  lost  their  power  to  pain. 

Apostle  pure  of  Freedom  and  of  Right, 
Thou  had'st  thy  one  reward : 

Thy  prayers  were  heard,  and  flashed 
upon  thy  sight 
The  Coming  of  the  Lord ! 

Now,  sheathed  in  myrtle  of  thy  tender 
songs, 
Slumbers  the  blade  of  truth  ; 
But  Age's  wisdom,   crowning   thee, 
prolongs 
The  eager  hope  of  Youth  ! 

Another  line  upon  thy  hand  I  trace, 

All  destinies  above: 
Men  know  thee  most  as  one  that  loves 
his  race, 

And  bless  thee  with  their  love ! 

1877. 


PEACH-BLOSSOM 


Nightly  the  hoar-frost  freezes 
The  young  grass  of  the  field, 
Nor  yet  have  blander  breezes 

The  buds  of  the  oak  unsealed  : 
Not  yet  pours  out  the  pine 
His  airy  resinous  wine  ; 
But  over  the  southern  slope, 
In  the  heat  and  hurry  of  hope, 
The  wands  of  the  peach-tree  first 
Into  rosy  beauty  burst : 
A  breath,  and  the  sweet  buds  ope  ! 
A  day,  and  the  orchards  bare, 
Like  maids  in  haste  to  be  fair, 
Lightly  themselves  adorn 
With  a  scarf  the  Spring  at  the  door 
Has  sportively  Hung  before, 
Or  a  stranded  cloud  of  the  morn  ! 


What  spirit  of  Persia  cometh 
And  saith  to  the  buds,  "Unclose! 

Ere  ever  the  first  bee  hummeth, 
Or  woodland  wild  flower  blows  ? 

What  prescient  soul  in  the  sod 

Garlands  each  barren  rod 


With  fringes  of  bloom  that  speak 
Of  the  baby's  tender  breast, 
And  the  boy's  pure  lip  impressed, 
And  the  pink  of  the  maiden's  cheek  ? 
The  swift,  keen  Orient  so 
Prophesies  as  of  old, 
While  the  apple's  blood  is  cold, 
Remembering  the  snow. 


Afar,  through  the  mellow  hazes 
Where    the    dreams    of    June    are 
stayed, 
The  hills,  in  their  vanishing  mazes, 

Carry  the  flush,  and  fade ! 
Southward  they  fall,  and  reach 
To  the  bay  and  the  ocean  beach, 
Where  the  soft,  half -Syrian  air 
Blows  from  the  Chesapeake's 
Inlets  and  coves  and  creeks 
On  the  fields  of  Delaware! 
And  the  rosy  lakes  of  flowers, 
That  here  alone  are  ours, 
Spread  into  seas  that  pour 
Billow  and  spray  of  pink 
Even  to  the  blue  wave's  brink, 
All  down  the  Eastern  Shore  ! 


Pain,  Doubt,  and  Death  are  over  ! 

Who  thinks,  to-day,  of  toil  ? 
The  fields  are  certain  of  clover, 

The  gardens  of  wine  and  oil. 
What  though  the  sap  of  the  North 
Drowsily  peereth  forth 
In  the  orchards,  and  still  delays  ? 
The  peach  and  the  poet  know 
Under  the  chill  the  glow, 
And  the  token  of  golden  days ! 


What  fool,  to-day,  would  rather 

In  wintry  memories  dwell  ? 
What  miser  reach  to  gather 

The  fruit  these  boughs  foretell  ? 
No,  no  !  —  the  heart  has  room 
For  present  joy  alone, 
Light  shed  and  sweetness  blown, 
For  odor  and  color  and  bloom  ! 
As  the  earth  in  the  shining  sky, 
Our  lives  in  their  own  bliss  lie; 
Whatever  is  taught  or  told, 
However  men  moan  and  sigh, 
Love  never  shall  grow  cold, 
And  Life  shall  never  die  ! 

1876. 


MY   PROLOGUE 


323 


ASSYRIAN  NIGHT-SONG 


There  is  naught,  on  either  hand, 
But  the  moon  upon  the  sand. 
Pale  and  glimmering,  far  and  dim, 
To  the  Desert's  utmost  rim, 
Flows  the  inundating  light 
Over  all  the  lands  of  Night. 
Bel,  the  burning  lord,  has  fled  : 
In  her  blue,  uncurtained  bed, 
Ishtar,  bending  from  above, 
Seeks  her  Babylonian  love. 
Silver-browed,  forever  fair, 
Goddess  of  the  dusky  hair 
And  the  jewel-sprinkled  breast, 
Give  me  love,  or  give  me  rest ! 


I  have  wandered  lone  and  far 
As  the  ship  of  Izdubar, 
When  the  gathered  waters  rose 
High  on  Nizir's  mountain  snows, 
Drifting  where  the  torrent  sped 
Over  life  and  glory  dead. 
Hear  me  now  !     I'stretch  my  hands 
From  the  moon-sea  of  the  sands 
Unto  thee,  or  any  star 
That  was  guide  to  Izdubar ! 
Where  the  bulls  with  kingly  heads 
Guard  the  way  to  palace-beds, 
Once  I  saw  a  woman  go, 
Swift  as  air  and  soft  as  snow, 
Making  swan  and  cypress  one, 
Steel  and  honey,  night  and  sun,  — 
Once  of  death  I  knew  the  sting  : 
Beauty  queen  —  and  I  not  king  ! 

in 

Where  the  Hanging  Gardens  soar 
Over  the  Euphrates'  shore, 
And  from  palm  and  clinging  vine 
Lift  aloft  the  Median  pine, 
Torches  flame  and  wine  is  poured, 
And  the  child  of  Bel  is  lord  ! 
I  am  here  alone  with  thee, 
Ishtar,  daughter  of  the  Sea, 
Who  of  woven  dew  and  air 
Spread'st  an  ocean,  phantom-fair, 
With  a  slow  pulse  beating  through 
Wave  of  air  and  foam  of  dew. 
As  I  stand,  I  seem  to  drift 
With  its  noiseless  fall  and  lift, 
While  a  veil  of  lightest  lawn, 
Or  a  floating  form  withdrawn, 


Or  a  glimpse  of  beckoning  hands 
Gleams  and  fades  above  the  sands. 


Day,  that  mixed  my  soul  with  men, 

Has  it  died  forever,  then  ? 

Is  there  any  world  but  this  ? 

If  the  god  deny  his  bliss, 

And  the  goddess  cannot  give, 

What    are    gods,    that    men    should 

live  ? 
Lo !  the  sand  beneath  my  feet 
Hoards  the  bounty  of  its  heat, 
And  thy  silver  cheeks  I  see 
Bright  with  him  who  burns  for  thee. 
Give  the  airy  semblance  form, 
Bid  the  dream  be  near  and  warm ; 
Or,  if  dreams  but  flash  and  die 
Asa  mock  to  heart  and  eye, 
Then  descend  thyself,  and  be, 
Ishtar,  sacred  bride  to  me ! 

1876. 


MY  PROLOGUE 


If  heat  of  youth,  't  is  heat  suppressed 
That  fills  my  breast  : 

The  childhood  of  a  voiceless  lyre 
Preserves  my  fire. 

I  chanted  not  while  I  was  young; 

But  ere  age  chill,  I  liberate  my  tongue ! 


Apart  from  stormy  ways  of  men, 
Maine's  loneliest  glen 

Held  me  as  banished,  and  unheard 
I  saved  my  word  : 

I  would  not  know  the  bitter  taste 

Of  the  crude  fame  which  falls  to  them 
that  haste. 


On  each  impatient  year  I  tossed 

A  holocaust 
Of  effort,  ashes  ere  it  burned, 

And  justly  spurned. 
If  now  I  own  maturer  days, 
I  know  not:  dust  to  me  is  passing 
praise. 

IV 

But  out  of  life  arises  song, 

.   Clear,  vital,  strong,  — 


324 


LATEST   LYRICS 


The  speech  men  pray  for  when  they 

pine, 
The  speech  divine 
No  other  can  interpret :  grand 
And  permanent  as  time  and  race  and 

land. 


I  dreamed  I  spake  it :  do  I  dream, 

In  pride  supreme, 
Or,  like  late  lovers,  found  the  bride 

Their  youth  denied, 
Is  this  my  stinted  passion's  flow  ? 
It  well  may  be ;  and  they  that  read 
will  know. 

1874. 


GABRIEL 


Once  let  the  Angel  blow !  — 

A  peal  from  the  parted  heaven, 

The  first  of  seven ! 

For  the  time  is  come  that  was  foretold 

So  long  ago  ! 

As  the  avalanche  gathers,  huge  and 

cold, 
From  the  down  of  the  harmless  snow, 
The  years  and" the  ages  gather  and  hang 
Till  the  day  when  the  word  is  spoken  : 
When  they  that  dwell  in  the  end  of 

time 
Are  smitten  alike  for  the  early  crime 
As  the  vials  of  wrath  are  broken  ! 


Yea,  the  time  hath  come  ; 

Though  Earth  is  rich,  her  children  are 

dumb! 
Ye  cry :  Beware 
Of  the  dancer's  floating  hair, 
And  the  cymbal's  clash,  and  the  sound 

of  pipe  and  drum ! 
But  the  Prophet  cries  :  Beware 
Of  the  hymn  unheard,  the  unanswered 

prayer ; 
For  ignorance  is  past, 
And  knowledge  comes  at  last, 
And  the  burden  it  brings  to  you  how 

can  ye  bear  ? 


Again  let  the  Angel  blow ! 
The  seals  are  loosened  that  seemed  to 
bind 


The  Future's  bliss  and  woe ! 

For  a  shrinking  soul,   an   uncertain 

mind, 
For  eyes  that  see,  but  are  growing 

blind, 
Your  landmarks  fade  and  change : 
The  colors  to-day  you  borrow 
Take  another  hue  to-morrow  ; 
The  forms  of  your  faith  are  wild  and 

strange ! 
Walking,  you  stagger  to  and  fro : 
So,  let  the  Angel  blow ! 

IV 

Ah,  shall  the  Angel  blow  ? 
Something  must  have  remained, 
Something  fresh  and  unstained, 
Sprung  from  the  common  soil  where 

the  virtues  grow : 
Nay,  it  is  not  so ! 

Art  succumbs  to  the  coarser  sense, 
Greed  o'ercometh  sweet  abstinence  ; 
Of  vices  young  men  talk, 
In  scarlet  your  women  walk, 
And  the  soul  of  honor  that  made  you 

proud, 
The  loftier  grace  your  lives  avowed, 
Are  a  passive  corpse  and  a  tattered 

shroud  : 
What  you  forget,  can  your  children 

know? 
So,  let  the  Angel  blow ! 


Yes,  let  the  Angel  blow ! 

A  peal  from  the  parted  heaven, 

The  first  of  seven ;  — 

The  warning,   not  yet  the  sign,   of 

woe! 
That  men  arise 
And  look  about  them  with  wakened 

eyes, 
Behold  on  their  garments  the  dust  and 

slime, 
Refrain,  forbear, 

Accept  the  weight  of  a  nobler  care 
And  take  reproach  from  the  fallen 

time! 

1874. 


THE  LOST  CARYATID 

When  over  Salamis  stands  Homer's 
moon, 
And  from  the  wasted  wave 


THE   LOST   CARYATID 


325 


Of  spent  Ilissus  falls  no  liquid  croon, 
But  tears  that  wet  a  grave  ; 

When    on    Pentelicus    the    quarried 
scars 
Are  dusk  as  dying  stars  ; 

When  Attica's  gray  olives  blend  and, 
gleam 
Like  sea-mists  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And,  islanded  in  Time's  eternal  stream, 

Only  Athene's  fane 
Shines    forth,    when   every    light   of 
heaven  must  kiss 
Art's  one  Acropolis: 

Then,  unto  him  —  the  modern  Hellenes 
say  — 
In  whom  old  dreams  survive; 
For  whom  the  force  of  each  immortal 
day 
Earth  knew,  is  yet  alive  — 
To  him  who  waits  and  listens  there 
alone, 
Kises  a  strange,  sweet  moan. 

The  voice  of  broken  marble,  the  com- 
plaint 
Of  beauty  nigh  despair, 
In  the  thick  wilderness  of  years  grown 
faint 
For  lack  of  rite  and  prayer, 
Since  all  perfection,  making  her  sub- 
lime, 
Provoked  her  evil  time. 

It  floats  around  the  Panathenaic  frieze 

Till  every  triglyph  sings, 
While  up  from  Dionysian  chairs  the 
breeze 
A  murmurous  answer  brings ; 
But  most  it  gathers  voice,  and  rests 
upon 
The  spoiled  Erechtheion. 

There  the  white  architrave  that  fronts 
the  east 
Lightly  five  sisters  hold 
As  blossom-baskets  at  a  bridal  feast, 

Or  jars  of  Samian  gold : 
Each    proud   and    pure,  and  still  a 
glorious  wraith 
Of  Beauty  wed  to  Faith ! 

The  sixth  has  vanished,  from  the  ser- 
vice torn, 
Long  since,  by  savage  hands, 


And  keeps  dumb  vigil  where  the  misty 
morn 
Creeps  o'er  Cimmerian  lands; 
While    the3r,  in  pallid   lip  and  dew- 
damp  cheek 
Lament,  and  seem  to  speak : 

"Where  art  thou,  sister?    Thee,  the 
sparkling  day, 
The  moonbeam  finds  no  more, 
Save  in  some  hall  where  darker  gods 
decay 
On  some  barbarian  shore ! 
Ah,  where,  beyond  Poseidon's  bitter 
foam, 
Hear'st  thou  the  voice  of  home  ? 

"Where,  when,  as  now,  the  night's 
mysterious  hush 

Our  ancient  life  renews, 
Or  when  the  tops  of  Corydallus  flush 

O'er  the  departing  dews  — 
And  lovely  Attica,  in  silver  spread, 

Forgets  that  she  is  dead  — 

' '  Bidest  thou  in  exile  ?    Speak !    Our 
being  cold,  — 
Thou  knowest !  —  yet  retains 
The  thrill  of  choric  strophes,  flutes  of 
gold, 
And  all  victorious  strains. 
Dark  is  the  world  that  knows  not  us 
divine ; 
But,  ah !  what  fate  is  thine  ?  " 

Lo!  from  afar,  across  unmeasured  seas 
An  answering  sound  is  blown, 

As  when  some  wind-god's  ghost  moves 
Thessaly's 
Tall  pines  to  solemn  tone  ; 

Yet  happy,  as  a  sole  Arcadian  flute, 
When  harvest-fields  are  mute. 

"I  hear  ye,  sisters!" — thus  the  an- 
swer falls: 
"My  marble  sends  reply 
To  you,  who  guard  the  fair,  immortal 
halls 
Beneath  our  ancient  sky  ; 
Yet    give    no  sadder    echo  to  your 
moan,  — 
I  am  not  here  alone ! 

"  Dark  walls  surround  me  ;  that  keen 
azure  fire 
Of  day  and  night  is  fled  ; 


326 


LATEST   LYRICS 


Yet  worship  clothes  me,  and  the  old 
desire 
That  round  your  feet  is  dead : 
I  see  glad  eyes,  I  feel  fresh  spirits 
burn, 
And  beauteous  faith  return ! 

"  What  idle  hand  or  scornful  set  me 
here 
I  heed  no  longer  now  ; 
Men  know  my  loveliness,  and,  half  in 
fear, 
Touch  mine  insulted  brow : 
In  me    the  glory  of    the  gods   dis- 
crowned 
The  race  again  has  found. 

"Move    proudly,   sisters,   bear  your 
architrave 
Without  me,  whom  ye  miss  ! 
Truth  finds  her  second  birthplace,  not 
her  grave, 
On  our  Acropolis  1 
And  children  here,  while  there  but 
aliens  roam, 
Shall  build  once  more  our  home." 

1877. 


THE  VILLAGE  STORK 

The  old  Hercynian  Forest  sent 

His  weather  on  the  plain  ; 
Wahlwinkel's  orchards  writhed  and 
bent 
In  whirls  of  wind  and  rain. 
Within  her  nest,  upon  the  roof, 
For  generations  tempest-proof, 
Wahlwinkel's  stork  with  her  young 

ones  lay, 
When  the  hand  of  the  hurricane  tore 
away 
The  house  and  the  home  that  held 
them. 

The  storm  passed  by  ;  the  happy  trees 

Stood  up,  and  kissed  the  sun ; 
And  from  the  birds  new  melodies 

Came  fluting  one  by  one. 
The  stork,  upon  the  paths  below, 
Went  sadly  pacing  to  and  fro, 
With  dripping  plumes  and  head  de- 
pressed, 
For  she  thought  of  the  spoiled  ances- 
tral nest, 
And  the  old,  inherited  honor. 


"Behold    her    now!"    the    throstle 
sang 
From  out  the  linden  tree  ; 

"Who  knows  from  what  a  line  she 
sprang, 
Beyond  the  unknown  sea  ?  " 

' '  If  she  could  sing,    perchance  her 
tale 

Might  move  us,"  chirruped  the  night- 
ingale. 

' '  Sing  ?      She    can    only  rattle  and 
creak ! " 

Whistled    the  bullfinch,   with  silver 
beak, 
Within  the  wires  of  his  prison. 

And  all  birds  there,  or  loud  or  low, 
Were  one  in  scoff  and  scorn ; 

But  still  the  stork  paced  to  and  fro, 
As  utterly  forlorn. 

Then  suddenly,  in  turn  of  eye, 

She  saw  a  poet  passing  by, 

And  the  thought  in  his  brain  was  an 
arrow  of  fire, 

That  pierced  her  with  passion,  and 
pride,  and  ire, 
And  gave  her  a  voice  to  answer. 

She  raised  her  head  and  shook  her 
wings, 
And  faced  the  piping  crowd. 
"  Best  service,"  said  she,  "never  sings, 

True  honor  is  not  loud. 
My  kindred  carol  not,  nor  boast ; 
Yet  we  are  loved  and  welcomed  most, 
And  our  ancient  race  is  dearest  and 

first, 
And  the  hand  that  hurts  us  is  held 
accursed 
In  every  home  of  Wahlwinkel ! 

"  Beneath  a  sky  forever  fair, 

And  with  a  summer  sod, 
The  land  I  come  from  smiles  —  and 
there 
My  brother  was  a  god  ! 
My  nest  upon  a  temple  stands 
And  sees  the  shine  of  desert  lands  ; 
And  the  palm  and  the  tamarisk  cool 

my  wings, 
When  the  blazing  beam  of  the  noon- 
day stings, 
And  I  drink  from  the  holy  river  ! 

"  There  I  am  sacred,  even  as  here ; 
Yet  dare  I  not  be  lost, 


THE   VILLAGE   STORK 


327 


WheD  meads  are  bright,  hearts  full  of 

cheer, 
At  blithesome  Pentecost. 
Then  from  mine  obelisk  I  depart, 
Guided  by  something  in  my  heart, 
And  sweep    in  a  line  over    Libyan 

sands 
To  the  blossoming  olives  of  Grecian 

lands, 
And  rest  on  the  Cretan  Ida ! 

"  Parnassus  sees  me  as  I  sail ; 

I  cross  the  Adrian  brine  ; 
The  distant  summits  fade  and  fail, 

Dalmatian,  Apennine ; 
The     Alpine     snows     beneath     me 

gleam, 
I  see  the  yellow  Danube  stream ; 


But  I  hasten  on  till  my  spent  wings  fall 
"Where  I  bring  a  blessing  to  each  and 

all, 
And  babes  to  the  wives  of  Wahl- 

winkel !  " 

She  drooped  her  head  and  spake  no 
more  ; 

The  birds  on  either  hand 
Sang  louder,  lustier  than  before  — 

They  could  not  understand. 
Thus  mused  the  stork,  with  snap  of 

beak  : 
' '  Better  be  silent,  than  so  speak ! 
Highest  being  can  never  be  taught : 
They  have  their  voices,  I  my  thought ; 

And  they  were  never  in  Egypt !  " 

August,  1878. 


ODES 


ODES 

1869-1878 

GETTYSBURG  ODE 

DEDICATION  OF  THE  NATIONAL  MONUMENT,    JULY  1, 


After  the  eyes  that  looked,  the  lips  that  spake 
Here,  from  the  shadows  of  impending  death, 

Those  words  of  solemn  breath, 

What  voice  may  fitly  break 
The  silence,  doubly  hallowed,  left  by  him  ? 
We  can  but  bow  the  head,  with  eyes  grown  dim, 

And,  as  a  Nation's  litany,  repeat 
The  phrase  his  martyrdom  hath  made  complete, 
Noble  as  then,  but  now  more  sadly-sweet : 
'  Let  us,  the  Living,  rather  dedicate 
Ourselves  to  the  unfinished  work,  which  they 
Thus  far  advanced  so  nobly  on  its  way, 

And  save  the  perilled  State ! 
Let  us,  upon  this  field  where  they,  the  brave, 
Their  last  full  measure  of  devotion  gave, 
Highly  resolve  they  have  not  died  in  vain  !  — 
That,  under  God,  the  Nation's  later  birth 

Of  Freedom,  and  the  people's  gain 
Of  their  own  Sovereignty,  shall  never  wane 
And  perish  from  the  circle  of  the  earth  ! " 
From  such  a  perfect  text,  shall  Song  aspire 

To  light  her  faded  fire, 
And  into  wandering  music  turn 
Its  virtue,  simple,  sorrowful,  and  stern  ? 
'His  voice  all  elegies  anticipated  ; 

For,  whatsoe'er  the  strain, 

We  hear  that  one  refrain  : 
1  We  consecrate  ourselves  to  them,  the  Consecrated ! 

11 

After  the  thunder-storm  our  heaven  is  blue  : 
Far-off,  along  the  borders  of  the  sky, 
In  silver  folds  the  clouds  of  battle  lie, 

With  soft,  consoling  sunlight  shining  through  ; 

And  round  the  sweeping  circle  of  your  hills 
The  crashing  cannon-thrills 

Have  faded  from  the  memory  of  the  air ; 


332  ODES 

And  Summer  pours  from  unexhausted  fountains 
Her  bliss  on  yonder  mountains  : 

The  camps  are  terjantless,  the  breastworks  bare  : 

Earth  keeps  no  stain  where  hero-blood  was  poured  : 
The  hornets,  humming  on  their  wings  of  lead, 
Have  ceased  to  sting,  their  angry  swarms  are  dead, 

And,  harmless  in  its  scabbard,  rusts  the  sword ! 

in 
O,  not  till  now,  —  O,  now  we  dare,  at  last, 

To  give  our  heroes  fitting  consecration  ! 
Not  till  the  soreness  of  the  strife  is  past, 

And  Peace  hath  comforted  the  weary  Nation  ! 
So  long  her  sad,  indignant  spirit  held 
One  keen  regret,  one  throb  of  pain,  unquelled; 
So  long  the  land  about  her  feet  was  waste, 

The  ashes  of  the  burning  lay  upon  her, 
We  stood  beside  their  graves  with  brows  abased,  ; 

Waiting  the  purer  mood  to  do  them  honor ! 
They,  through  the  flames  of  this  dread  holocaust, 
The  patriot's  wrath,  the  soldier's  ardor,  lost: 
They  sit  above  us  and  above  our  passion, 

Disparaged  even  by  our  human  tears,  — 
Beholding  truth  our  race,  perchance,  may  fashion 

In  the  slow  process  of  the  creeping  years. 
We  saw  the  still  reproof  upon  their  faces ; 
We  heard  them  whisper  from  the  shining  spaces: 
"  To-day  ye  grieve :  come  not  to  us  with  sorrow  ! 
Wait  for  the  glad,  the  reconciled  To-morrow  ! 
Your  grief  but  clouds  the  ether  where  we  dwell ; 

Your  anger  keeps  your  souls  and  ours  apart : 
But  come  with  peace  and  pardon,  all  is  well  ! 

And  come  with  love,  we  touch  you,  heart  to  heart ! 


Immortal  Brothers,  we  have  heard ! 
Our  lips  declare  the  reconciling  word : 
For  Battle  taught,  that  set  us  face  to  face, 

The  stubborn  temper  of  the  race, 
And  both,  from  fields  no  longer  alien,  come, 

To  grander  action  equally  invited,  — 
Marshalled  by  Learning's  trump,  by  Labor's  drum, 

In  strife  that  purifies  and  makes  united  ! 
We  force  to  build,  the  powers  that  would  destroy  ; 
The  muscles,  hardened  by  the  sabre's  grasp, 

Now  give  our  hands  a  firmer  clasp : 
We  bring  not  grief  to  you,  but  solemn  joy! 

And,  feeling  you  so  near, 
Look  forward  with  your  eyes,  divinely  clear, 
To  some  sublimely-perfect,  sacred  year, 
When  sons  of  fathers  whom  ye  overcame 
Forget  in  mutual  pride  the  partial  blame, 
And  join  with  us,  to  set  the  final  crown 

Upon  your  dear  renown,  — 
The  People's  Union  in  heart  and  name  ! 


GETTYSBURG   ODE  333 

v 

And  yet,  ye  Dead !  —  and  yet 
Our  clouded  natures  cling  to  one  regret : 
We  are  not  all  resigned 
To  yield,  with  even  mind, 
Our  scarcely-risen  stars,  that  here  untimely  set. 
We  needs  must  think  of  History  that  waits 

For  lines  that  live  but  in  their  proud  beginning,  — 
Arrested  promises  and  cheated  fates,  — 

Youth's  boundless  venture  and  its  single  winning  ! 
We  see  the  ghosts  of  deeds  they  might  have  done, 

The  phantom  homes  that  beaconed  their  endeavor ; 
The  seeds  of  countless  lives,  in  them  begun, 
That  might  have  multiplied  for  us  forever! 
We  grudge  the  better  strain  of  men 
That  proved  itself,  and  was  extinguished  then  — 
The  field,  with  strength  and  hope  so  thickly  sown, 
Where  from  no  other  harvest  shall  be  mown : 
For  all  the  land,  within  its  clasping  seas, 

Is  poorer  now  in  bravery  and  beauty, 
Such  wealth  of  manly  loves  and  energies 
Was  given  to  teach  us  all  the  freeman's  sacred  duty  ! 

VI 

Again  't  is  they,  the  Dead, 
By  whom  our  hearts  are  comforted. 
Deep  as  the  land -blown  murmurs  of  the  waves 
The  answer  cometh  from  a  thousand  graves: 

'  *  Not  so  !  we  are  not  orphaned  of  our  fate  ! 
Though  life  were  warmest,  and  though  love  were  sweetest, 
We  still  have  portion  in  their  best  estate  : 

Our  fortune  is  the  fairest  and  completest ! 
Our  homes  are  everywhere  :  our  loves  are  set 

In  hearts  of  man  and  woman,  sweet  and  vernal : 
Courage  and  Truth,  the  children  we  beget, 

Unmixed  of  baser  earth,  shall  be  eternal. 
A  finer  spirit  in  the  blood  shall  give 
The  token  of  the  lines  wherein  we  live,  — 
Unselfish  force,  unconscious  nobleness 

That  in  the  shocks  of  fortune  stands  unshaken,  — 
The  hopes  that  in  their  very  being  bless, 

The  aspirations  that  to  deeds  awaken  ! 
If  aught  of  finer  virtue  ye  allow 

To  us,  that  faith  alone  its  like  shall  win  you  ; 
So,  trust  like  ours  shall  ever  lift  the  brow  ; 

And  strength  like  ours  shall  ever  steel  the  sinew  ! 
We  are  the  blossoms  which  the  storm  has  cast 

From  the  Spring  promise  of  our  Freedom's  tree, 
Pruning  its  overgrowths,  that  so,  at  last, 

Its  later  fruit  more  bountiful  shall  be  !  — 
Content,  if,  when  the  balm  of  Time  assuages 
The  branch's  hurt,  some  fragrance  of  our  lives 
In  all  the  land  survives, 
And  makes  their  memory  sweet  through  still  expanding  ages ! " 


334  ODES 

VII 

Thus  grandly,  they  we  mourn,  themselves  console  us; 

And,  as  their  spirits  conquer  and  control  us, 

We  hear,  from  some  high  realm  that  lies  beyond, 

The  hero-voices  of  the  Past  respond. 

From  every  State  that  reached  a  broader  right 

Through  fiery  gates  of  battle  ;  from  the  shock 

Of  old  invasions  on  the  People's  rock  ; 

From  tribes  that  stood,  in  Kings'  and  Priests'  despite  ; 

From  graves,  forgotten  in  the  Syrian  sand, 

Or  nameless  barrows  of  the  Northern  strand, 

Or  gorges  of  the  Alps  and  Pyrenees, 

Or  the  dark  bowels  of  devouring  seas,  — 

Wherever  Man  for  Man's  sake  died,  —  wherever 

Death  stayed  the  march  of  upward-climbing  feet, 

Leaving  their  Present  incomplete, 
But  through  far  Futures  crowning  their  endeavor,  — 
Their  ghostly  voices  to  our  ears  are  sent, 
As  when  the  high  note  of  a  trumpet  wrings 

^Eolian  answers  from  the  strings 
Of  many  a  mute,  unfingered  instrument ! 
Plataean  cymbals  thrill  for  us  to-day ; 
The  horns  of  Sempach  in  our  echoes  play, 
And  nearer  yet,  and  sharper,  and  more  stern, 
The  slogan  rings  that  startled  Bannockburn  ; 
Till  from  the  field,  made  green  with  kindred  deed, 

The  shields  are  clashed  in  exultation 
Above  the  dauntless  Nation, 
That  for  a  Continent  has  fought  its  Runnymede ! 

VEII 

Aye,  for  a  Continent !     The  heart  that  beats 

With  such  rich  blood  of  sacrifice 
Shall,  from  the  Tropics,  drowsed  with  languid  heats, 

To  the  blue  ramparts  of  the  Northern  ice, 
Make  felt  its  pulses,  all  this  young  world  over  !  — 

Shall  thrill,  and  shake,  and  sway 
Each  land  that  bourgeons  in  the  Western  day, 
Whatever  flag  may  float,  whatever  shield  may  cover  ! 
With  fuller  manhood  every  wind  is  rife, 

In  every  soil  are  sown  the  seeds  of  valor, 
Since  out  of  death  came  forth  such  boundless  life, 

Such  ruddy  beauty  out  of  anguished  pallor  ! 

And  that  first  deed,  along  the  Southern  wave, 

Spoiled  not  the  sister-land,  but  lent  an  arm  to  save  ! 


Now,  in  her  seat  secure, 
Where  distant  menaces  no  more  can  reach  her, 

Our  land,  in  undivided  freedom  pure, 
Becomes  the  unwilling  world's  unconscious  teacher  ; 
And,  day  by  day,  beneath  serener  skies, 
The  unshaken  pillars  of  her  palace  rise,  — 
The  Doric  shafts,  that  lightly  upward  press, 
And  hide  in  grace  their  giant  massiveness. 


SHAKESPEARE'S    STATUE  335 

What  though  the  sword  has  hewn  each  corner-stone, 

And  precious  blood  cements  the  deep  foundation  ! 
Never  by  other  force  have  empires  grown  ; 

From  other  basis  never  rose  a  nation ! 
For  strength  is  born  of  struggle,  faith  of  doubt, 

Of  discord  law,  and  freedom  of  oppression : 
We  hail  from  Pisgah,  with  exulting  shout, 
The  Promised  Land  below  us,  bright  with  sun, 

And  deem  its  pastures  won, 
Ere  toil  and  blood  have  earned  us  their  possession! 
Each  aspiration  of  our  human  earth 
Becomes  an  act  through  keenest  pangs  of  birth ; 
Each  force,  to  bless,  must  cease  to  be  a  dream, 
And  conquer  life  through  agony  supreme ; 
Each  inborn  right  must  outwardly  be  tested 

By  stern  material  weapons,  ere  it  stand 
•  In  the  enduring  fabric  of  the  land, 
Secured  for  these  who  yielded  it,  and  those  who  wrested  ! 


This  they  have  done  for  us  who  slumber  here,  — 

Awake,  alive,  though  now  so  dumbly  sleeping  ; 
Spreading  the  board,  but  tasting  not  its  cheer, 

Sowing,  but  never  reaping  ;  — 
Building,  but  never  sitting  in  the  shade 
Of  the  strong  mansion  they  have  made  ;  — 
Speaking  their  word  of  life  with  mighty  tongue, 
But  hearing  not  the  echo,  million-voiced, 

Of  brothers  who  rejoiced, 
From  all  our  river  vales  and  mountains  flung ! 
So  take  them,  Heroes  of  the  songful  Past ! 
Open  your  ranks,  let  every  shining  troop 

Its  phantom  banners  droop, 
To  hail  Earth's  noblest  martyrs,  and  her  last ! 
Take  them,  O  Fatherland ! 
Who,  dying,  conquered  in  thy  name; 
And,  with  a  grateful  hand, 
Inscribe  their  deed  who  took  away  thy  blame,  — 
Give,  for  their  grandest  all,  thine  insufficient  fame  ! 
Take  them,  O  God  !  our  Brave, 
The  glad  fulfillers  of  Thy  dread  decree  ; 
.  Who  grasped  the  sword  for  Peace,  and  smote  to  save, 
And,  dying  here  for  Freedom,  also  died  for  Thee  i 


SHAKESPEARE'S  STATUE 

CENTRAL  PARK,  NEW  YORK,  MAY  23,  1872 


In  this  free  Pantheon  of  the  air  and  sun, 
Where  stubborn  granite  grudgingly  gives  place 
To  petted  turf,  the  garden's  daintier  race 
Of  flowers,  and  Art  hath  slowly  won 


336  ODES 

A  smile  from  grim,  primeval  barrenness, 

What  alien  Form  doth  stand  ? 
Where  scarcely  yet  the  heroes  of  the  land, 
As  in  their  future's  haven,  from  the  stress 
Of  all  conflicting  tides,  find  quiet  deep 

Of  bronze  or  marble  sleep, 
What  stranger  comes,  to  join  the  scanty  band  ? 
Who  pauses  here,  as  one  that  muses 
While  centuries  of  men  go  by, 
And  unto  all  our  questioning  refuses 
His  clear,  infallible  reply  ? 
Who  hath  his  will  of  us,  beneath  our  new- world  sky 


Here,  in  his  right,  he  stands! 
No  breadth  of  earth-dividing  seas  can  bar 
The  breeze  of  morning,  or  the  morning  star, 

From  visiting  our  lands  : 
His  wit,  the  breeze,  his  wisdom,  as  the  star, 
Shone  where  our  earliest  life  was  set,  and  blew 

To  freshen  hope  and  plan 

In  brains  American,  — 
To  urge,  resist,  encourage,  and  subdue ! 
He  came,  a  household  ghost  we  could  not  ban : 
He  sat,  on  winter  nights,  by  cabin  fires ; 
His  summer  fairies  linked  their  hands 

Along  our  yellow  sands  ; 
He  preached  within  the  shadow  of  our  spires  ; 
And  when  the  certain  Fate  drew  nigh,  to  cleave 
The  birth-cord,  and  a  separate  being  leave, 
He,  in  our  ranks  of  patient-hearted  men, 
Wrought  with  the  boundless  forces  of  his  fame, 

Victorious,  and  became 
The  Master  of  our  thought,  the  land's  first  Citizen ! 

in 
If,  here,  his  image  seem 
Of  softer  scenes  and  grayer  skies  to  dream, 
Thatched  cot  and  rustic  tavern,  ivied  hall, 

The  cuckoo's  April  call 
And  cowslip-meads  beside  the  Avon  stream, 
He  shall  not  fail  that  other  home  to  find 

We  could  not  leave  behind  ! 
The  forms  of  Passion,  which  his  fancy  drew, 

In  us  their  ancient  likenesses  beget : 
So,  from  our  lives  forever  born  anew, 

He  stands  amid  his  own  creations  yet ! 
Here  comes  lean  Cassius,  of  conventions  tired ; 

Here,  in  his  coach,  luxurious  Antony 
Beside  his  Egypt,  still  of  men  admired  ; 

And  Brutus  plans  some  purer  liberty ! 
A  thousand  Shylocks,  Jew  and  Christian,  pass  ; 

A  hundred  Hamlets,  by  their  times  betrayed  ; 
And  sweet  Anne  Page  comes  tripping  o'er  trie  grass, 

And  antlered  Falstaff  pants  beneath  the  shade. 


SHAKESPEARE'S    STATUE  337 

Here  toss  upon  the  wanton  summer  wind 

The  locks  of  Rosalind ; 
Here  some  gay  glove  the  damned  spot  conceals 

Which  Lady  Macbeth  feels  : 
His  ease  here  smiling  smooth  Iago  takes, 

And  outcast  Lear  gives  passage  to  his  woe, 
And  here  some  foiled  Reformer  sadly  breaks 
His  wand  of  Prospero  ! 
In  liveried  splendor,  side  by  side, 
Nick  Bottom  and  Titania  ride  ; 
And  Portia,  flushed  with  cheers  of  men, 
Disdains  dear,  faithful  Imogen  ; 
And  Puck,  beside  the  form  of  Morse, 
Stops  on  his  forty -minute  course  ; 
And  Ariel  from  his  swinging  bough 
A  blossom  casts  on  Bryant's  brow, 
Until,  as  summoned  from  his  brooding  brain, 
He  sees  his  children  all  again, 
In  us,  as  on  our  lips,  each  fresh,  immortal  strain ! 

IV 

Be  welcome,  Master !     In  our  active  air 

Keep  the  calm  strength  we  need  to  learn  of  thee ! 

A  steadfast  anchor  be 
'Mid  passions  that  exhaust,  and  times  that  wear ! 
Thy  kindred  race,  that  scarcely  knows 

What  power  is  in  Repose, 
What  permanence  in  Patience,  what  renown 
In  silent  faith  and  plodding  toil  of  Art 

That  shyly  works  apart, 
All  these  in  thee  unconsciously  doth  crown ! 

v 

The  Many  grow,  through  honor  to  the  One  ; 
And  what  of  loftier  life  we  do  not  live, 

This  Form  shall  help  to  give, 
In  our  free  Pantheon  of  the  air  and  sun  ! 
Here,  where  the  noise  of  Trade  is  loudest, 

It  builds  a  shrine  august, 
To  show,  while  pomp  of  wealth  is  proudest, 
How  brief  is  gilded  dust : 
How  Art  succeeds,  though  long, 
And  o'er  the  tumult  of  the  generations, 
The  strong,  enduring  spirit  of  the  nations, 

How  speaks  the  voice  of  Song ! 
Our  City,  at  her  gateways  of  the  sea, 

Twines  bay  around  the  mural  crown  upon  her, 
And  wins  new  grace  and  dearer  dignity, 
Giving  our  race's  Poet  honor  ! 
If  such  as  he 
Again  may  ever  be, 
And  our  humanity  another  crown 
Find  in  some  equal,  late  renown, 
The  reverence  of  what  he  was  shall  call  it  down  ! 


sO 


338  ODES 

GOETHE 

NEW  YORK,  AUGUST  28,  1875 

I 

Whose  voice  shall  so  invade  the  spheres 
That,  ere  it  die,  the  Master  hears  ? 
Whose  arm  is  now  so  strong 
To  fling  the  votive  garland  of  a  song, 
That  some  fresh  odor  of  a  world  he  knew 
With  large  enjoyment,  and  may  yet 
Not  utterly  forget, 
Shall  reach  his  place,  and  whisper  whence  it  grew 

Dare  we  invoke  him,  that  he  pause 
On  trails  divine  of  unimagined  laws, 

And  bend  the  luminous  eyes 
Experience  could  not  dim,  nor  Fate  surprise, 
On  these  late  honors,  where  we  fondly  seem, 
Him  thus  exalting,  like  him  to  aspire, 
And  reach,  in  our  desire, 
The  triumph  of  his  toil,  the  beauty  of  his  dream  ! 


God  moulds  no  second  poet  from  the  clay 
Time  once  hath  cut  in  marble  :  when,  at  last, 

The  veil  is  plucked  away, 
We  see  no  face  familiar  to  the  Past. 

New  mixtures  of  the  elements, 
And  fresh  espousals  of  the  soul  and  sense, 

At  first  disguise 
The  unconjectured  Genius  to  our  eyes, 
Till  self -nursed  faith  and  self -encouraged  power 

Win  the  despotic  hour 
That  bids  our  doubting  race  accept  and  recognize ! 


Ah,  who  shall  say  what  cloud  of  disregard, 
Cast  by  the  savage  ancient  fame 

Of  some  forgotten  name, 

Mantled  the  Chian  bard  ? 
He  walked  beside  the  strong,  prophetic  sea, 
Indifferent  as  itself,  and  nobly  free  ; 
While  roll  of  waves  and  rhythmic  sound  of  oars 

Along  Ionian  shores, 
To  Troy's  high  story  chimed  in  undertone, 
And  gave  his  song  the  accent  of  their  own ! 
What  classic  ghost  severe  was  summoned  up 
To  threaten  Dante,  when  the  bitter  bread 

Of  exile  on  his  board  was  spread, 
The  bitter  wine  of  bounty  filled  his  cup  ? 
We  need  not  ask :  the  unpropitious  years, 

The  hate  of  Guelf ,  the  lordly  sneers 
Of  Delia  Scala's  court,  the  Roman  ban, 

Were  but  as  eddying  dust 

To  his  firm-centred  trust ; 
For  through  that  air  without  a  star 


GOETHE  339 

Burned  one  unwavering  beacon  from  afar, 
That  kept  hiin  his  and  ours,  the  stern,  immortal  man! 
What  courtier,  stuffed  with  smooth,  accepted  lore 

Of  Song's  patrician  line, 
But  shrugged  his  velvet  shoulders  all  the  more, 
And  heard,  with  bland,  indulgent  face, 
As  who  bestows  a  grace, 
The  homely  phrase  that  Shakespeare  made  divine  ? 

So,  now,  the  dainty  souls  that  crave 
Light  stepping-stones  across  a  shallow  wave, 
Shrink  from  the  deeps  of  Goethe's  soundless  song! 

So,  now,  the  weak,  imperfect  fire 
That  knows  but  half  of  passion  and  desire 
Betrays  itself,  to  do  the  Master  wrong  ;  — 
Turns,  dazzled  by  his  white,  uncolored  glow, 
And  deems  his  sevenfold  heat  the  wintry  flash  of  snow ! 


Fate,  like  a  grudging  child, 

Herself  once  reconciled 
To  power  by  loss,  by  suffering  to  fame  ; 

Weighing  the  Poet's  name 
With  blindness,  exile,  want,  and  aims  denied ; 
Or  let  faint  spirits  perish  in  their  pride ; 
Or  gave  her  justice  when  its  need  had  died; 
"But  as  if  weary  she 
Of  struggle  crowned  by  victory, 
Him  with  the  largesse  of  her  gifts  she  tried ! 

Proud  beauty  to  the  boy  she  gave  : 
A  lip  that  bubbled  song,  yet  lured  the  bee ; 
An  eye  of  light,  a  forehead  pure  and  free  ; 
Strength  as  of  streams,  and  grace  as  of  the  wave ! 

Round  him  the  morning  air 
Of  life  she  charmed,  and  made  his  pathway  fair; 

Lent  Love  her  lightest  chain, 
That  laid  no  bondage  on  the  haughty  brain, 
And  cheapened  honors  with  a  new  disdain  : 

Kept,  through  the  shocks  of  Time ; 
For  him  the  haven  of  a  peace  sublime, 

And  let  his  sight  forerun 
The  sown  achievement,  to  the  harvest  won! 


But  Fortune's  darling  stood  unspoiled  : 

Caressing  Love  and  Pleasure, 
He  let  not  go  the  imperishable  treasure: 
He  thought,  and  sported ;  carolled  free,  and  toiled : 
He  stretched  wide  arms  to  clasp  the  joy  of  Earth, 

But  delved  in  every  field 
Of  knowledge,  conquering  all  clear  worth 
Of  action,  that  ennobles  through  the  sense 

Of  wholly  used  intelligence  : 
From  loftiest  pinnacles,  that  shone  revealed 
In  pure  poetic  ether,  he  could  bend 

To  win  the  little  store 

Of  humblest  Labor's  lore, 


34Q  ODES 

And  give  each  face  of  Life  the  greeting  of  a  friend  ! 
He  taught,  and  governed,  —  knew  the  thankless  days 

Of  service  and  dispraise  ; 
He  followed  Science  on  her  stony  ways ; 
He  turned  from  princely  state  to  heed 

The  single  nature's  need, 
And,  through  the  chill  of  hostile  years, 
Never  unlearned  the  noble  shame  of  tears! 
Faced  by  fulfilled  Ideals,  he  aspired 
To  win  the  perished  secret  of  their  grace,  — 
To  dower  the  earnest  children  of  a  race 
Toil  never  tamed,  nor  acquisition  tired, 
With  Freedom  born  of  Beauty  !  — and  for  them 
His  Titan  soul  combined 
The  passions  of  the  mind, 
Which  blood  and  time  so  long  had  held  apart, 
Till  the  white  blossom  of  the  Grecian  Art 
The  world  saw  shine  once  more,  upon  a  Gothic  stem ! 


His  measure  would  we  mete  ? 
It  is  a  sea  that  murmurs  at  our  feet. 

Wait,  first,  upon  the  strand  : 
A  far  shore  glimmers —  "  knowest  thou  the  land  ?  " 
Whence  these  gay  flowers  that  breathe  beside  the  water  ? 

Ask  thou  the  Erl-King's  daughter! 
It  is  no  cloud  that  darkens  thus  the  shore : 
Faust  on  his  mantle  passes  o'er. 
The  water  roars,  the  water  heaves, 

The  trembling  waves  divide: 
A  shape  of  beauty,  rising,  cleaves 

The  green  translucent  tide. 
The  shape  is  a  charm,  the  voice  is  a  spell ; 
We  yield,  and  dip  in  the  gentle  swell. 
Then  billowy  arms  our  limbs  entwine, 
And,  chill  as  the  hidden  heat  of  wine, 
We  meet  the  shock  of  the  sturdy  brine ; 
And  we  feel,  beneath  the  surface-flow, 
The  tug  of  the  powerful  undertow, 

That  ceaselessly  gathers  and  sweeps 
To  broader  surges  and  darker  deeps ; 
Till,  faint  and  breathless,  we  can  but  float 
Idly,  and  listen  to  many  a  note 
From  horns  of  the  Tritons  flung  afar ; 

And  see,  on  the  watery  rim, 

The  circling  Dorides  swim, 
And  Cypris,  poised  on  her  dove-drawn  car! 

Torn  from  the  deepest  caves, 

Sea-blooms  brighten  the  waves  : 
The  breaker  throws  pearls  on  the  sand, 
And  inlets  pierce  to  the  heart  of  the  land, 

Winding  by  dorf  and  mill, 
Where  the  shores  are  green  and  the  waters  still, 

And  the  force,  but  now  so  wild, 
Mirrors  the  maiden  and  sports  with  the  child ! 
Spent  from  the  sea,  we  gain  its  brink, 

With  soul  aroused  and  limbs  aflame  : 


GOETHE  341 

Half  are  we  drawn,  and  half  we  sink 
But  rise  no  more  the  same. 

■ 

VII 

O  meadows  threaded  by  the  silver  Main ! 

O  Saxon  hills  of  pine, 
Witch-haunted  Hartz,  and  thou, 

Deep  vale  of  Ilmenau! 
Ye  knew  your  poet ;  and  not  only  ye : 

The  purple  Tyrrhene  Sea 
Not  murmurs  Virgil  less,  but  him  the  more  ; 
The-  Lar  of  haughty  Rome 
Gave  the  high  guest  a  home : 
He  dwells  with  Tasso  on  Sorrento's  shore  ! 
The  dewy  wild-rose  of  his  German  lays, 
Beside  the  classic  cyclamen, 

In  many  a  Sabine  glen, 
Sweetens^the  calm  Italian  days. 
But  pass  the  hoary  ridge  of  Lebanon, 

To  where  the  sacred  sun 
Beams  on  Sehiraz  ;  and  lo!  before  the  gates, 

Goethe,  the  heir  of  Hafiz,  waits. 
Know  ye  the  turbaned  brow,  the  Persian  guise, 
The  bearded  lips,  the  deep  yet  laughing  eyes  ? 
A  cadence  strange  and  strong 
Fills  each  voluptuous  song, 
And  kindles  energy  from  old  repose  ; 
Even  as  first,  amid  the  throes 
Of  the  unquiet  West, 
He  breathed  repose  to  heal  the  old  unrest ! 

vrn 
Dear  is  the  Minstrel,  yet  the  Man  is  more  ; 
But  should  I  turn  the  pages  of  his  brain, 
The  lighter  muscle  of  my  verse  would  strain 

And  break  beneath  his  lore. 
How  charge  with  music  powers  so  vast  and  free, 

Save  one  be  great  as  he  ? 
Behold  him,  as  ye  jostle  with  the  throng 
Through  narrow  ways,  that  do  your  beings  wrong, 
Self-chosen  lanes,  wherein  ye  press 

In  louder  Storm  and  Stress, 
Passing  the  lesser  bounty  by 
Because  the  greater  seems  too  high, 
And  that  sublimest  joy  forego, 

To  seek,  aspire,  and  know ! 
Behold  in  him.  since  our  strong  line  began, 

The  first  f  ull-statured  man ! 
Dear  is  the  Minstrel,  even  to  hearts  of  prose ; 
But  he  who  sets  all  aspiration  free 

Is  dearer  to  humanity. 
Still  through  our  age  the  shadowy  Leader  goes  ; 
Still  whispers  cheer,  or  waves  his  warning  sign  ; 

The  man  who,  most  of  men, 
Heeded  the  parable  from  lips  divine, 

And  made  one  talent  ten ! 


342  ODES 

THE  NATIONAL  ODE 

INDEPENDENCE   SQUARE,    PHILADELPHIA,    JULY  4,   1876 
L—  1. 

Sun  of  the  stately  Day 
Let  Asia  into  the  shadow  drift, 
Let  Europe  bask  in  thy  ripened  ray, 
And  over  the  severing  ocean  lift 
A  brow  of  broader  splendor! 
Give  light  to  the  eager  eyes 
Of  the  Land  that  waits  to  behold  thee  rise  ; 
The  gladness  of  morning  lend  her, 
With  the  triumph  of  noon  attend  her, 
And  the  peace  of  the  vesper  skies  ! 
For,  lo !  she  cometh  now 
With  hope  on  the  lip  and  pride  on  the  brow, 
Stronger,  and  dearer,  and  fairer, 
To  smile  on  the  love  we  bear  her,  — 
To  live,  as  we  dreamed  her  and  sought  her, 

Liberty's  latest  daughter! 
In  the  clefts  of  the  rocks,  in  the  secret  places, 

We  found  her  traces ; 
On  the  hills,  in  the  crash  of  woods  that  fall, 
We  heard  her  call  ; 
When  the  lines  of  battle  broke, 
We  saw  her  face  in  the  fiery  smoke ; 
Through  toil,  and  anguish,  and  desolation, 

We  followed,  and  found  her 
With  the  grace  of  a  virgin  Nation 
As  a  sacred  zone  around  her  ! 

Who  shall  rejoice 
With  a  righteous  voice, 
Far-heard  through  the  ages,  if  not  she  ? 

For  the  menace  is  dumb  that  defied  her, 
The  doubt  is  dead  that  denied  her, 
And  she  stands  acknowledged,  and  strong,  and  free  1 

II.— 1. 

Ah,  hark  !  the  solemn  undertone, 
On  every  wind  of  human  story  blown. 

A  large,  divinely-moulded  Fate 
Questions  the  right  and  purpose  of  a  State, 
And  in  its  plan  sublime 

Our  eras  are  the  dust  of  Time. 

The  far-off  Yesterday  of  power 
Creeps  back  with  stealthy  feet, 

Invades  the  lordship  of  the  hour, 
And  at  our  banquet  takes  the  unbidden  seat. 
From  all  unchronicled  and  silent  ages 
Before  the  Future  first  begot  the  Past, 

Till  History  dared,  at  last, 
To  write  eternal  words  on  granite  pages ; 
From  Egypt's  tawny  drift,  and  Assur's  mound, 

And  where,  uplifted  white  and  far, 

Earth  highest  yearns  to  meet  a  star, 


THE   NATIONAL   ODE  343 

And  Man  his  manhood  by  the  Ganges  found,  — 
Imperial  heads,  of  old  millennial  sway, 

And  still  by  some  pale  splendor  crowned, 
Chill  as  a  corpse-light  in  our  full-orbed  day, 

In  ghostly  grandeur  rise 
And  say,  through  stony  lips  and  vacant  eyes : 
Thou  that  assertest  freedom,  power,  and  fame, 

Declare  to  us  thy  claim  !  " 


I.— 2. 

On  the  shores  of  a  Continent  cast, 
She  won  the  inviolate  soil 
By  loss  of  heirdom  of  all  the  Past, 
Arid  faith  in  the  royal  right  of  Toil ! 
She  planted  homes  on  the  savage  sod : 
Into  the  wilderness  lone 
She  walked  with  fearless  feet, 
In  her  hand  the  divining-rod, 
Till  the  veins  of  the  mountains  beat 
With  fire  of  metal  and  force  of  stone  ! 
She  set  the  speed  of  the  river-head 

To  turn  the  mills  of  her  bread  ; 
She  drove  her  ploughshare  deep 
Through  the  prairie's  thousand-centuried  sleep, 
To  the  South,  and  West,  and  North, 
She  called  Pathfinder  forth, 
Her  faithful  and  sole  companion 
Where  the  flushed  Sierra,  snow-starred, 

Her  way  to  the  sunset  barred, 
And  the  nameless  rivers  in  thunder  and  foam 
Channelled  the  terrible  canyon ! 
Nor  paused,  till  her  uttermost  home 
Was  built,  in  the  smile  of  a  softer  sky 

And  the  glory  of  beauty  still  to  be, 
Where  the  haunted  waves  of  Asia  die 
On  the  strand  of  the  world-wide  sea ! 


II.  — 2. 

The  race,  in  conquering, 
Some  fierce,  Titanic  joy  of  conquest  knows; 

Whether  in  veins  of  serf  or  king, 
Our  ancient  blood  beats  restless  in  repose. 

Challenge  of  Nature  unsubdued 
Awaits  not  Man's  defiant  answer  long; 

For  hardship,  even  as  wrong, 
Provokes  the  level-eyed  heroic  mood. 
This  for  herself  she  did ;  but  that  which  lies, 

As  over  earth  the  skies, 
Blending  all  forms  in  one  benignant  glow,  — 

Crowned  conscience,  tender  care, 
Justice  that  answers  every  bondman's  prayer, 
Freedom  where  Faith  may  lead  and  Thought  may  dare, 

The  power  of  minds  that  know, 

Passion  of  hearts  that  feel, 


344  ODES 


Purchased  by  blood  and  woe, 
Guarded  by  fire  and  steel,  — 

Hath  she  secured  ?    What  blazon  on  her  shield, 
In  the  clear  Century's  light 
Shines  to  the  world  revealed, 

Declaring  nobler  triumph,  born  of  Right  ? 

I. —3. 

Foreseen  in  the  vision  of  sages, 

Foretold  when  martyrs  bled, 
She  was  born  of  the  longing  of  ages, 
By  the  truth  of  the  noble  dead 
And  the  faith  of  the  living  fed! 
No  blood  in  her  lightest  veins 
Frets  at  remembered  chains, 
Nor  shame  of  bondage  has  bowed  her  head. 
In  her  form  and  features  still 
The  unblenching  Puritan  will, 
Cavalier  honor,  Huguenot  grace, 
The  Quaker  truth  and  sweetness, 
And  the  strength  of  the  danger-girdled  race 
Of  Holland,  blend  in  a  proud  completeness. 
From  the  homes  of  all,  where  her  being  began, 
She  took  what  she  gave  to  Man ; 
Justice,  that  knew  no  station, 

Belief,  as  soul  decreed, 
Free  air  for  aspiration, 
Free  force  for  independent  deed  ! 
She  takes,  but  to  give  again, 
As  the  sea  returns  the  rivers  in  rain  ; 
And  gathers  the  chosen  of  her  seed 
From  the  hunted  of  every  crown  and  creed. 
Her  Germany  dwells  by  a  gentler  Rhine ; 
Her  Ireland  sees  the  old  sunburst  shine  ; 
Her  France  pursues  some  dream  divine ; 
Her  Norway  keeps  his  mountain  pine ; 
Her  Italy  waits  by  the  western  brine ; 
And,  broad-based  under  all, 
Is  planted  England's  oaken-hearted  mood, 
As  rich  in  fortitude 
As  e'er  went  worldward  from  the  island-wall ! 

Fused  in  her  candid  light, 
To  one  strong  race  all  races  here  unite: 
Tongues  melt  in  hers,  hereditary  f  oemen 
Forget  their  sword  and  slogan,  kith  and  clan  : 

'T  was  glory,  once,  to  be  a  Roman : 
She  makes  it  glory,  now,  to  be  a  man! 


H.  — 3. 

Bow  down ! 
Doff  thine  seonian  crown ! 

One  hour  forget 
The  glory,  and  recall  the  debt: 


THE   NATIONAL   ODE  345 

Make  expiation, 

Of  humbler  mood, 
For  the  pride  'of  thine  exultation 
O'er  peril  conquered  and  strife  subdued  ! 
But  half  the  right  is  wrested 

When  victory  yields  her  prize. 
And  half  the  marrow  tested 

When  old  endurance  dies. 
In  the  sight  of  them  that  love  thee, 
Bow  to  the  Greater  above  thee ! 

He  faileth  not  to  smite 
The  idle  ownership  of  Right, 
Nor  spares  to  sinews  fresh  from  trial, 
And  virtue  schooled  in  long  denial, 

The  tests  that  wait  for  thee 
In  larger  perils  of  prosperity. 

Here,  at  the  Century's  awful  shrine, 
Bow  to  thy  Father's  God,  and  thine ! 


I.— 4. 

Behold!  she  bendeth  now, 
Humbling  the  chaplet  of  her  hundred  years: 
There  is  a  solemn  sweetness  on  her  brow, 
And  in  her  eyes  are  sacred  tears. 
Can  she  forget, 
In  present  joy,  the  burden  of  her  debt, 
When  for  a  captive  race 
She  grandly  staked,  and  won, 
The  total  promise  of  her  power  begun, 

And  bared  her  bosom's  grace 
To  the  sharp  wound  that  inly  tortures  yet  ? 

Can  she  forget 
The  million  graves  her  young  devotion  set, 

The  hands  that  clasp  above, 

From  either  side,  in  sad,  returning  love? 

Can  she  forget, 

Here,  where  the  Ruler  of  to-day, 

The  Citizen  of  to-morrow, 

And  equal  thousands  to  rejoice  and  pray 

Beside  these  holy  walls  are  met, 
Her  birth-cry,  mixed  of  keenest  bliss  and  sorrow  ? 
Where,  on  July's  immortal  morn 
Held  forth,  the  People  saw  her  head 
And  shouted  to  the  world :  "  The  King  is  dead, 

But,  lo  !  the  Heir  is  born  !  " 
When  fire  of  Youth,  and  sober  trust  of  Age, 
In  Farmer,  Soldier,  Priest,  and  Sage, 
Arose  and  cast  upon  her 
Baptismal  garments,  —  never  robes  so  fair 

Clad  prince  in  Old -World  air,  — 
Their  lives,  their  fortunes,  and  their  sacred  honor  ! 


346  ODES 


II.— 4. 

Arise !    Recrown  thy  head, 
Radiant  with  blessing  of  the  Dead  ! 

Bear  from  this  hallowed  place 
The  prayer  that  purifies  thy  lips, 
The  light  of  courage  that  defies  eclipse, 
The  rose  of  Man's  new  morning  on  thy  face ! 

Let  no  iconoclast 
Invade  thy  rising  Pantheon  of  the  Past, 
To  make  a  blank  where  Adams  stood, 
To  touch  the  Father's  sheathed  and  sacred  blade, 
Spoil  crowns  on  Jefferson  and  Franklin  laid, 
Or  wash  from  Freedom's  feet  the  stain  of  Lincoln's  blood! 
Hearken,  as  from  that  haunted  Hall 
Their  voices  call : 
' '  We  lived  and  died  for  thee  ; 
We  greatly  dared  that  thou  might'st  be  : 
So,  from  thy  children  still 
We  claim  denials  which  at  last  fulfil, 
And  freedom  yielded  to  preserve  thee  free ! 
Beside  clear-hearted  Right 
That  smiles  at  Power's  uplifted  rod, 
Plant  Duties  that  requite, 
And  Order  that  sustains,  upon  thy  sod, 

And  stand  in  stainless  might 
Above  all  self,  and  only  less  than  God  ! 

III.  —  1. 
Here  may  thy  solemn  challenge  end, 
All-proving  Past,  and  each  discordance  die 

Of  doubtful  augury, 
Or  in  one  choral  with  the  Present  blend, 
And  that  half -heard,  sweet  harmony 
Of  something  nobler  that  our  sons  may  see ! 

Though  poignant  memories  burn 

Of  days  that  were,  and  may  again  return, 

When  thy  fleet  foot,  O  Huntress  of  the  Woods, 

The  slippery  brinks  of  danger  knew, 

And  dim  the  eyesight  grew 

That  was  so  sure  in  thine  old  solitudes,  — 

Yet  stays  some  richer  sense 
Won  from  the  mixture  of  thine  elements, 

To  guide  the  vagrant  scheme, 
And  winnow  truth  from  each  conflicting  dream ! 

Yet  in  thy  blood  shall  live 

Some  force  unspent,  some  essence  primitive, 

To  seize  the  highest  use  of  things  ; 

For  Fate,  to  mould  thee  to  her  plan, 

Denied  thee  food  of  kings, 

Withheld  the  udder  and  the  orchard-fruits, 

Fed  thee  with  savage  roots, 

And  forced  thy  harsher  milk  from  barren  breasts  of  man  ! 


THE   NATIONAL   ODE  347 


IIL— 2. 

O  sacred  Woman-Form, 
Of  the  first  People's  need  and  passion  wrought,  — 

No  thin,  pale  ghost  of  Thought, 
But  fair  as  Morning  and  as  heart'  s-blood  warm,  — 
Wearing  thy  priestly  tiar  on  Judah's  hills ; 
Clear-eyed  beneath  Athene's  helm  of  gold; 

Or  from  Rome's  central  seat 
Hearing  the  pulses  of  the  Continents  beat 
In  thunder  where  her  legions  rolled  ; 
Compact  of  high  heroic  hearts  and  wills, 

Whose  being  circles  all 
The  selfless  aims  of  men,  and  all  fulfils ; 
Thyself  not  free,  so  long  as  one  is  thrall : 
Goddess,  that  as  a  Nation  lives, 
And  as  a  Nation  dies, 
That  for  her  children  as  a  man  defies, 
And  to  her  children  as  a  mother  gives,  — 

Take  our  fresh  fealty  now ! 
No  more  a  Chieftainess,  with  wampum-zone 
And  feather-cinctured  brow,  — 
No  more  a  new  Britannia,  grown 
To  spread  an  equal  banner  to  the  breeze, 
And  lift  thy  trident  o'er  the  double  seas  ; 
But  with  unborrowed  crest, 
In  thine  own  native  beauty  dressed,  — 
The  front  of  pure  command,  the  unflinching  eye,  thine  own! 

III.  —  3. 

Look  up,  look  forth,  and  on ! 

There 's  light  in  the  dawning  sky: 
The  clouds  are  parting,  the  night  is  gone  : 

Prepare  for  the  work  of  the  day! 

Fallow  thy  pastures  lie, 

And  far  thy  shepherds  stray, 
And  the  fields  of  thy  vast  domain 

Are  waiting  for  purer  seed 

Of  knowledge,  desire,  and  deed, 
For  keener  sunshine  and  mellower  rain  ! 

But  keep  thy  garments  pure : 
Pluck  them  back,  with  the  old  disdain, 

From  touch  of  the  hands  that  stain  ! 

So  shall  thy  strength  endure. 
Transmute  into  good  the  gold  of  Gain, 
Compel  to  beauty  thy  ruder  powers, 

Till  the  bounty  of  coming  hours 

Shall  plant,  on  thy  fields  apart, 
With  the  oak  of  Toil,  the  rose  of  Art ! 

Be  watchful,  and  keep  us  so  : 

Be  strong,  and  fear  no  foe  : 

Be  just,  and  the  world  shall  know  ! 
With  the  same  love  love  us,  as  we  give  ; 

And  the  day  shall  never  come, 

That  finds  us  weak  or  dumb 


348  ODES 


To  join  and  smite  and  cry  _ 
In  the  great  task,  for  thee  to  die, 
And  the  greater  task,  for  thee  to  live  ! 


THE  OBSEQUIES  IN  ROME 

JANUARY   17,    1878 


Victor  Emanuel  !  —  of  prophetic  name, 

Who,  crowned  in  sore  defeat, 
Caught  out  of  blood,  disaster,  and  retreat, 
With  wounded  hands,  a  soldier's  simple  fame,  — 

Content,  had  that  been  all, 
And  most  content,  victoriously  to  fall :  — 
Life  saved  thee  for  a  people's  holiest  aim, 

And  leaves  thee  Victor,  in  thy  pall! 
"  God  with  us"  may  that  people  say, 
Who  walk  behind  thy  conquering  dust,  to-day: 

Yea,  all  thine  Italy 
Made  one,  at  last,  and  proudly  free, 
Blesses  thy  sire's  baptismal  prophecy  ! 

ii 

Since,  over- coarse  to  be  the  Empire's  lord, 

Herulian  Odoaker  fell 
Among  spilled  goblets,  by  the  Gothic  sword, 
In  old  Ravenna's  palace  citadel ; 

And,  after  him,  Theodoric  strove 
To  own  the  land  he  could  not  choose  but  love  ;  — 
And  both,  from  no  deficiency  of  power, 

But  failing  heart  and  brain 
That  might  revivify  the  beauty  slain, 
Builded  barbaric  thrones  for  one  brief  hour  ;  — 

Since,  in  a  glorious  vision  cast 
By  some  narcotic  opiate  of  the  Past, 

Rienzi  sought  to  be 
Brutus  in  deed,  Caesar  in  victory,  — 
The  Italy,  that  once  was  Rome, 
Dismembered,  sighed  for  her  deliverance, 

Saw  her  Republics  die, 
Leaned  vainly  on  the  broken  reed  of  France, 

Till,  when  despair  seemed  nigh, 
She  knew  herself,  and,  starting  from  her  trance, 
Summoned  the  Victor,  who  hath  led  her  home ! 


He  knew  his  people,  and  his  soul  was  strong 

To  wait  till  they  knew  him: 
The  hand  that  holds  a  sceptre  dare  not  shake 
From  the  quick  blood  that  burns  at  every  wrong. 

With  Europe  watchful,  cold  and  grim 
Behind  him,  and  the  triple-hooded  snake 

Coiled  in  his  path,  he  went 
Through  changing  gusts  of  doubt  and  discontent, 
Till  all  he  could  have  dreamed  of,  came  to  him  ! 


THE  OBSEQUIES   IN   ROME  349 

But  now  his  people  know  him !  —  now, 
Since  Death's  pure  coronet  is  on  his  brow, 

Italian  eyes  are  dim ! 
Now  to  her  ancient  glories  sovereign  Home 

Adds  one  more  glory  :  sorrow  falls 
O'er  all  the  circuit  of  the  Aurelian  walls,  — 
Even  from  Montorio  on  Saint  Peter's  dome  : 
And  where  on  warm  Pamfili-Dorian  meads 

Fresh  dew  the  daisy  feeds; 
And  breathes  in  every  tall  Borghese  pine, 

And  moans  on  Aventine ; 
And  —  could  the  voice  of  all  desire  awake 
That  once  was  loud  for  Italy's  dear  sake,  — 
A  hymn  would  burst  from  each  dumb  burial-stone 

Beside  the  Cestian  pyramid, 

Where  Keats's,  Shelley's  dust  is  hid, 
In  dithyrambic  triumph  o'er  his  own  ! 


Who  walk  behind  his  bier  ? 
Behold  the  solemn  phantoms !  —  who  are  they, 
The  stern  precursors  that  arise,  to-day, 

Breathing  of  many  a  fiery  year 
And  clad  in  drapery  of  a  darker  time  ? 

These  are  the  dead  who  saw, 
Too  soon,  the  world's  diviner  law,  — 
Too  early  dreamed  their  people's  dream  sublime ! 
He  follows  them,  who  lived  to  make  that  dream 

A  principle  supreme, 
Dome-browed  Mazzini,  —  he,  who  planted  sure 

Its  corner-stone,  Cavour ! 
Then,  first  among  the  living,  that  gray  chief 
Who  wears,  at  last,  his  Roman  laurel's  leaf, 
To  conquer  which  he  rent  and  shattered  down 

His  rich  Sicilian  crown. 
Ah,  bend  thee,  Garibaldi !  —  be  not  loth 
To  trust  the  son  of  him  thou  gav'st  a  land, 

Or  kiss  the  stainless  hand 
Of  her  whose  name  is  pearl  and  daisy  both ! 

Such  love,  to-day,  thy  people  give 
To  him  who  died,  such  trust  to  them  who  live. 


Cunning  nor  Force  shall  overthrow 
The  State  whose  fabric  has  been  builded  so. 
Under  the  Pantheon's  dome, 
The  undying  Victor  still  shall  reign 
O'er  one  free  land  that  dare  not  feel  a  chain,  - 

Whose  mighty  heart  is  Rome ! 
Still,  from  the  ramparts  of  the  Rhaetian  snow, 
Far  down  the  realms  of  corn  and  wine, 
Back-boned  by  Apennine, 
To  capes  that  breast  the  warm  Calabrian  Sea, 
A  single  race  shall  know 
One  love,  one  right,  one  loyalty :  — 
Still  from  his  ashes  Italy  shall  grow, 
Who  made  her  Italy ! 


35°  ODES 

EPICEDIUM 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


Say,  who  shall  mourn  him  first, 
Who  sang  in  days  for  Song  so  evil-starred, 
Shielding  from  adverse  winds  the  flame  he  nursed, 

Our  Country's  earliest  Bard? 

For  all  he  sang  survives 
In  stream,  and  tree,  and  bird,  and  mountain-crest, 
And  consecration  of  uplifted  lives 

To  Duty's  stern  behest; 
Till,  like  an  echo  falling  late  and  far 
As  unto  Earth  the  answer  from  a  star, 
Along  his  thought's  so  nigh  unnoted  track 

Our  people's  heart  o'ertakes 
His  pure  design,  and  hears  him,  and  awakes 

To  breathe  its  music  back ! 
Approach,  sad  Forms,  now  fitly  to  employ 
The  grave,  sweet  stops  of  all  melodious  sound, 

Yet  undertoned  with  joy; 
For  him  ye  lose,  at  last  is  truly  found. 

ii 
Scarce  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  these  hours, 
The  Manitou  of  Flowers, 
Crowned  with  the  Painted-cup,  that  shakes 
Its  gleam  of  war-paint  on  his  dusky  cheek, 

Goes  by,  but  cannot  speak ; 
Yet  tear  or  dew-drop  'neath  his  coronal  breaks, 

And  in  his  drooping  hand 
The  azure  eyelids  of  the  gentian  die 

That  loves  the  yellow  autumn  land  • 
The  wind-flower,  golden-rod, 
With  phlox  and  orchis,  nod ; 
And  every  blossom  frail  and  shy 
No  careless  loiterer  sees, 
But  poet,  sun  and  breeze, 
And  the  bright  countenance  of  our  western  sky. 
They  know  who  loved  them  ;  they,  if  all 

Forgot  to  dress  his  pall, 
Or  strew  his  couch  of  long  repose, 
Would  from  the  prairies  and  the  central  snows 

The  sighing  west- wind  call, 
Their  withered  petals,  even  as  tears,  to  bear, 

And,  like  a  JSTiobe  of  ais, 
Upon  his  sea-side  grave  to  let  them  fall ! 


Next  you,  ye  many  Streams, 
That  make  a  music  through  his  cold  green  land ! 

Whether  ye  scour  the  granite  slides 
In  broken  spray-light  or  in  sheeted  gleams, 

Or  in  dark  basins  stand, 
Your  bard's  fond  spirit  in  your  own  abides. 


EPICEDIUM 

Not  yours  the  wail  of  woe, 
Whose  joy  is  in  your  wild  and  wanton  flow,  — 

Chill,  beautiful  Undines 
That  flash  white  hands  behind  your  thicket-screens, 
And  charm  the  wild  wood  and  the  cloven  flumes 

To  hide  you  in  their  glooms ! 
But  he  hath  kissed  you,  and  his  lips  betray 
Your  coyest  secrets ;  now,  no  more 
Your  bickering,  winking  tides  shall  stray 

Through  August's  idle  day, 
Or  showered  with  leaves  from  brown  November's  floo 
Untamed,  and  rich  in  mystery 

As  ye  were  wont  to  be ! 
From  where  the  dells  of  Greylock  feed 
Your  thin,  young  life,  to  where  the  Sangamon 
Breaks  with  his  winding  green  the  Western  mead, 

Delay  to  hasten  on ! 

Ask  not  the  clouds  and  hills 
To  swell  the  veins  of  your  obedient  rills, 
And  brim  your  banks  with  turbid  overflow  ; 

But  calmly,  soothly  go, 
Soft  as  a  sigh  and  limpid  as  a  tear, 

So  that  ye  seem  to  borrow 

The  voice  and  the  visage  of  sorrow, 
For  he  gave  you  glory  and  made  you  dear  ! 


Strong  Winds  and  mighty  Mountains,  sovereign  Sea, 

What  shall  your  dirges  be  ? 
The  slow,  great  billow,  far  down  the  shore, 
Booms  in  its  breaking :  ' '  Dare  —  and  despair !  " 
The  fetterless  winds,  as  they  gather  and  roar, 
Are  evermore  crying  :  "  Where,  oh  where  V  " 
The  mountain  summits,  with  ages  hoar, 
Say:  "Near  and  austere,  but  far  and  fair ! " 

Shall  ye  in  your  sorrow  droop, 
Who  are  strong  and  sad,  and  who  cannot  stoop  ? 
Two  may  sing  to  him  where  he  lies, 
But  the  third  is  hidden  behind  the  skies. 

Ye  cannot  take  what  he  stole, 
And  made  his  own  in  his  inmost  soul  ! 

The  pulse  of  the  endless  Wave 
Beauty  and  breadth  to  his  strophes  gave ; 

The  Winds  with  their  hands  unseen 
Held  him  poised  at  a  height  serene  ; 
And  the  world  that  wooed  him,  he  smiled  to  o'ercome  it 

Whose  being  the  Mountains  made  so  strong,  — 
Whose  forehead  arose  like  a  sunlighted  summit 

Over  eyes  that  were  fountains  of  thought  and  song ! 


And  last,  ye  Forms,  with  shrouded  face 
Hiding  the  features  of  your  woe, 
That  on  the  fresh  sod  of  his  burial-place 

Your  myrtle,  oak,  and  laurel  throw,  — 
Who  are  ye  ?  —  whence  your  silent  sorrow  ? 


35 


352  ODES 


Strange  is  your  aspect,  alien  your  attire  : 

Shall  we,  who  knew  him,  borrow 
Your  unknown  speech  for  Grief's  august  desire  ? 

Lo !  one,  with  lifted  brow 
Says:  "  Nay,  he  knew  and  loved  me  :  I  am  Spain  ! " 
Another:  "  I  am  Germany, 

Drawn  sadly  nearer  now 
By  songs  of  his  and  mine  that  make  one  strain, 
Though  parted  by  the  world-dividing  sea!  " 
And  from  the  hills  of  Greece  there  blew 
A  wind  that  shook  the  olives  of  Peru, 

Till  all  the  world  that  knew, 
Or,  knowing  not,  shall  yet  awake  to  know 
The  sweet  humanity  that  fused  his  song,  — 

The  haughty  challenge  unto  Wrong, 
And  for  the  trampled  Truth  his  fearless  blow,  — 

Acknowledge  his  exalted  mood 
Of  faith  achieved  in  song-born  solitude, 

And  give  him  high  acclaim 
With  those  who  followed  Good,  and  found  it  Fame! 


Ah,  no !  —  why  should  we  mourn 
The  noble  life,  that  wore  its  crown  of  years  ? 
Why  drop  these  tender,  unavailing  tears 
Upon  a  fate  of  no  fulfilment  shorn  ? 

He  was  too  proud  to  seek 
That  which  should  come  unasked  ;  and  came, 
Kindling  and  brightening  as  a  wind-blown  flame 
When  he  had  waited  long, 
And  life  —  but  never  art —  was  weak, 
But  youthful  will  and  sympathy  were  strong 
In  white-browed  eye  and  hoary -bearded  cheek  ; 
Until,  when  called  at  last 
That  later  life  to  celebrate, 
Wherein,  dear  Italy,  for  thine  estate, 
The  glorious  Present  joined  the  glorious  Past, 

He  fell,  and  ceased  to  be  ! 
We  could  not  yield  him  grandlier  than  thus, 
When,  for  thy  hero  speaking,  he 
Spake  equally  for  us  !  — 
His  last  word,  as  his  first,  was  Liberty  ! 
His  last  word,  as  his  first,  for  Truth 
Struck  to  the  heart  of  age  and  youth  : 
He  sought  her  everywhere, 
In  the  loud  city,  forest,  sea,  and  air  : 
He  bowed  to  wisdom  other  than  his  own, 
To  wisdom  and  to  law, 
Concealed  or  dimly  shown 
In  all  he  knew  not,  all  he  knew  and  saw, 
Trusting  the  Present,  tolerant  of  the  Past, 

Firm-faithed  in  what  shall  come 
When  the  vain  noises  of  these  days  are  dumb  ; 
And  his  first  word  was  noble  as  his  last ! 

Berlin,  September,  1878. 


INDEXES 


INDEX    OF    FIRST   LINES 


A  grass-blade  is  my  warlike  lance,  317. 

A  land  of  Dreams  and  Sleep,  —  a  poppied  land  ! 
72. 

A  second  deluge  !  "Well,  — no  matter  :  here,  42. 

A  silver  javelin  which  the  hills,  69. 

A  thousand  years  !     Through  storm  and  fire,  138. 

Above  the  palms,  the  peaks  of  pearly  gray,  148. 

After  the  eyes  that  looked,  the  lips  that  spake, 
331. 

Again  I  sit  within  the  mansion,  99. 

Along  the  east,  where  late  the  dark  impended, 
123. 

An  old  and  crippled  veteran  to  the  War  Depart- 
ment came,  136. 

As  when  the  haze  of  some  wan  moonlight  makes, 
39. 

At  last  the  dream  that  clad  the  field,  158. 

Because  no  other  dream  my  childhood  knew,  177. 
Born  in  the  purple  !  born  in  the  purple  !  85. 
Brim  the  bowls  with  Shiraz  wine  !  66. 
Brother  Bards  of  every  region,  78. 

Child  with  the  butterfly,  319. 
Children  are  we,  12. 
Come  hither,  Child  !  thou  silent,  shy,  4. 
Come,  my  beauty !  come,  my  desert  darling  !  75. 
Come  to  me,  Lalage  !  316. 

Complete  the  altar  stands  :  my  task  is  done,  181. 
Could  I  choose  the  age  and  fortunate   season, 
307. 

Daughter  of  Egypt,  veil  thine  eyes  !  62. 
Dead  is  the  air,  and  still  !  the  leaves  of  the  lo- 
cust and  walnut,  253. 
Dear  Lillian,  all  I  wished  is  won  !  15. 
Down  in  the  dell  I  wandered,  98. 
Do  you  sigh  for  the  power  you  dream  of,  309. 

Farewell  awhile,  my  bonnie  darling  !  147. 

Fill,  for  we  drink  to  Labor  !  318. 

For  days  before,  the  wild-dove  cooed  for  rain, 

121. 
From  the  bosom  of  ocean  I  seek  thee,  13. 
From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee,  69. 
From  the  doorway,  Manuela,  in  the  sunny  April 

morn,  19. 
From  you  and  home  I  sleep  afar,  127. 

Give  back  the  soul  of  youth  once  more  !  92. 
"  Give  us  a  song  !  "  the  soldiers  cried,  86. 
God,  to  whom  we  look  up  blindly,  113. 
Gusty  and  raw  was  the  morning,  20. 

Hail  to  thee,  monarch  of  African  mountains,  72. 
Hassan  Ben  Khaled,  singing  in  the  streets,  55. 
Have    I    passed    through    Death's    unconscious 

birth,  123. 
Have  you  seen  the  Garden  of  Irem  ?  67. 
He  knew  the  mask  of  principle  to  wear,  143. 
He  was  a  boy  when  first  we  met,  124. 


Heart  in  my  bosom  beating,  318. 

Heavy,  and  hot,  and  gray,  112. 

Hereslacken  rein  ;  here  let  the  dusty  mules,  24. 

Here  was  the  gate.     The  broken  paling,  154. 

Homely,  forgotten  flower,  319. 

How  cool  and  wet  the  lowlands  lie,  94. 

How  the  hot  revel's  fever  dies,  94. 

I  am  born  from  the  womb  of  the  cloud,  311. 

I  am  no  chieftain,  fit  to  lead,  6. 

I  had  a  vision  in  that  solemn  hour,  17. 

I  lie  in  the  summer  meadows,  98. 

I  plucked  for  thee  the  wilding  rose,  12. 

I  read  that  story  of  the  Saxon  knight,  125. 

I  ride  in  a  gloomy  land,  314. 

I  sat  to-day  beneath  the  pine,  320. 

I  sit  on  the  lonely  headland,  109. 

I  've  drunk  Sicilia's  crimson  wine  !  9. 

I  've  passed  the  grim  and  threatening  warders,  19. 

I  walk,  as  in  a  dream,  139. 

If  heat  of  youth,  't  is  heat  suppressed,  323. 

"If  I  could  forget,"  she  said,  "forget,  and  be- 
gin again ! "  242. 

If  I  could  touch  with  Petrarch's  pen  this  strain, 
143. 

If  love  should  come  again,  I  ask  my  heart,  119. 

If  that  my  hand,  like  yours,  dear  George,  were 
skilled,  142. 

If  thou  hadst  died  at  midnight,  115. 

In  Allan's  name,  the  Ever  Merciful,  160. 

In  clay  the  statue  stood  complete,  108. 

In  Steyermark,  —  green  Steyermark,  14. 

In  this  free  Pantheon  of  the  air  and  sun,  335. 

Io  triumphe  !     Lo,  thy  certain  art,  86. 

It  was  our  wedding-day,  126. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  114. 

Italy,  loved  of  the  sun,  156. 

Last  night  the  Tempter  came  to  me,  and  said,  110. 

Learn  to  live,  and  live  to  learn,  321. 

Like  one  who  leaves  the  trampled  street,  119. 

Little  one,  come  to  my  knee  !  141. 

Long  ere  the  shores  of  green  America,  28. 

Look  forth,  Beloved,  from  thy  mansion  high,  147. 

Love,  I  foUow,  follow  thee,  120. 

May-time  and  August,  November,  and  over  the 

winter  to  May-time,  259. 
Moan,  ye  wild  winds  !  around  the  pane,  5. 
My  home  was  seated  high  and  fair,  310. 
Mysterious    Flood,  —  that    through    the    silent 

sands,  75. 

Nay,  fold  your  arms,  beloved  Friends,  138. 
Nay,  nay  !  the  longings  tender,  313. 
Near  in  the  forest,  318. 
Next  to  thee,  O  fair  gazelle,  78. 
Nightly  the  hoar-frost  freezes,  322. 
No  longer  spread  the  sail !  96. 
Not  as  in  youth,  with  steps  outspeeding  morn, 
103. 


356 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Now  fold  thy  rich  experience  round  thee,  160. 
Now  saddle  El  Canelo  !  —  the  freshening  wind 

of  morn,  23. 
Now  the  days  are  brief  and  drear,  96. 
Now  the  frosty  stars  are  gone,  46. 
Now  the  night  is  overpast,  126. 
Now,  when  the  mocking-bird  returned,  from  his 

Florida  winter,  249. 

O  Daughter  of  the  Sun,  76. 

O  fair  young  land,  the  youngest,  fairest  far,  91. 

0  Friend,  were  you  but  couched  on  Tmolus'  side, 

51. 
O  God  of  Peace  !  now  o'er  the  world,  315. 
O  tongues  of  the  Past,  be  still  !  111. 
Off,  fetters  of  the  falser  life,  88. 
On  curtained  eyes,  and  bosoms  warm  with  rest, 

263. 
Once  let  the  Angel  blow  !  324. 
Once  more  without  you !   Sighing,  Dear,  once 

more,  141. 
One  hour  be  silent,  sounds  of  war  !  143. 
Over  the  eaves  where  the  sunbeams  fall,  320. 

Paler,  and  yet  a  thousand  times  more  fair,  129. 

Returned  to  warm  existence,  —  even  as  one,  155. 
Roseate  darling,  149. 

Sad  Autumn,  drop  thy  weedy  crown  forlorn,  142. 
Say,  who  shall  mourn  him  first,  350. 
Scarce  from  the  void  of  shadows  taken,  159. 
Search  high  and  low,  search  up  and  down,  312. 
She  came,  long  absent  from  my  side,  124. 
She  is  a  woman  :  therefore,  I  a  man,  125. 
She,  pacing  down  the  vineyard  walks,  90. 
Snow-bound  for  earth,   but  summer-souled  for 

thee,  321. 
Something  came  with  the  falling  dusk,  312. 
Sometimes  an  hour  of  Fate's  serenest  weather, 

248. 
Sometimes,  in  sleeping  dreams  of  night,  97. 
Strike  the  tent !  the  sun  has  risen  ;  not  a  vapor 

streaks  the  dawn,  27. 
Storm-wearied  Argo  slept  upon  the  water,  34. 
Sun  of  the  stately  Day,  342. 

That  late,  in  half-despair,  I  said,  135. 

The  beech  is  bare,  and  bare  the  ash,  115. 

The  black-eyed  children  of  the  Desert  drove,  37. 

The  clarion  Wind,  that  blew  so  loud  at  morn,  7. 

The  clouds  are  scudding  across  the  moon,  11. 

The  clouds  that  stoop  from  yonder  sky,  311. 

The  Coliseum  lifts  at  night,  89. 

The  corn  was  warm  in  the  ground,  the  fences 

were  mended  and  made,  239. 
The  day  had  come,  the  day  of  many  years,  105. 
The  deep  and  lordly  Danube,  13. 
The  dusky  sky  fades  into  blue,  53. 
The  evening  shadows  lengthen  on  the  lawn,  104. 
The  fateful  hour,  when  Death  stood  by,  129. 
The  fisherman  wades  in  the  surges,  111. 
The  frosty  fires  of  Northern  starlight,  17. 
The  glen  was  fair  as  some  Arcadian  dell,  150. 
The  gods  are  gone,  the  temples  overthrown,  157. 
The  gorgeous  blossoms  of  that  magic  tree,  77. 
The  gray  stems  rise,  the  branches  braid,  116. 
The  lamps  were  thick ;  the  air  was  hot,  94. 
The  message  of  the  god  I  seek,  153. 
The  old  Hercynian  Forest  sent,  326. 
The  "  Ornament  of  Asia"  and  the  "  Crown,  77. 
The  Poet  came  to  the  Land  of  the  East,  38. 
The  Prophet  once,  sitting  in  calm  debate,  68. 
The  rain  is  sobbing  on  the  wold,  93. 


The  rose  of  your  cheek  is  precious,  316. 

The    Scorpion's    stars  crawl  down  behind    the 

sun,  6. 
The  sea  is  a  jovial  comrade,  92. 
The  splendor  of  the  sinking  moon,  79. 
The  star  o'  the  morn  is  whitest,  317. 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  mystic  planets  seven, 

The  valley  stream  is  frozen,  118. 

The  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank,  89. 

The  waters  of  my  life  were  sweet,  109. 

The  wild  and  windy  morning  is  lit  with  lurid  fire, 

80. 
The  woodlands  wore  a  gloomy  green,  117. 
The  years  go  by,  old  Friend  !    Each,  as  it  fleets, 

142. 
Thee  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah,  —  come 

in!     'T  is  kind  of  thee,  237. 
There  is  naught  on  either  hand,  208. 
There 's  a  mist  on  the  meadow  below ;  the  her- 
ring-frogs chirp  and  cry,  241. 
They  call  thee  false  as  thou  art  fair,  99. 
This  plant,  it  may  be,  grew  from  vigorous  seed, 

315. 
Thou  art  not  dead ;  thou  art  not  gone  to  dust, 

97. 
Thou,  Bavaria's  brown-eyed  daughter,  14. 
Thou  who  sendest  sun  and  rain,  131. 
Though  they  never  divided  my  meat  or  wine, 

168. 
Though  thy  constant  love  I  share,  317. 
Thrice  three  moons  had  waxed  in  heaven,  thrice 

three  moons  had  waned  away,  73. 
Through  days  of  toil,  through  nightly  fears,  11. 
Through  many  years  my  heart  goes  back,  262. 
Through  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night,  316. 
'T  is  not  the  dropping  of  the  flower,  128. 
'T  was  Friday  morn  :  the  train  drew  near,  135. 

Under  the  arches  of  the  morning  sky,  70. 
Under  the  full-blown  linden  and  the  plane,  313. 
Under  the  lamp  in  the  tavern  yard,  167. 
Unto  the  Desert  and  the  Desert  steed,  81. 

Victor  Emanuel !  of  prophetic  name,  348. 

Waken,  voice  of  the  Land's  Devotion  !  316. 
Was  it  a  distant  flute,  313. 
We  are  not  old,  we  are  not  cold,  118. 
We  walk  amid  the  currents  of  actions  left  un- 
done, 164. 
Well  —  well !  this  is  a  comfort,  now  —  the  air  is 

as  mild  as  May,  244. 
What  if  I  crouch  in  the  grass,  or  listlessly  rock 

on  the  waters  ?  317. 
What  if  we  lose  the  seasons,  318. 
What  point  of  Time  unchronicled  and  dim,  21. 
When  bleak  winds  through  the  Northern  pines 

were  sweeping,  3. 
When  days  were  long,   and  o'er  that  farm  of 

mine,  142. 
When  May,  with  cowslip-braided  locks,  116. 
When  over  Salamis  stands  Homer's  moon,  324. 
When  Peter  led  the  First  Crusade,  89. 
When  shall  I  find  you,  sweetheart,  319. 
When  the  maple  turns  to  crimson,  117. 
When  the  rains  of  November  are  dark  on  the 

hills,  and  the  pine-trees  incessantly  roar,  10. 
When  the  stern  Genius,  to  whose  hollow  tramp, 

16. 
When  the  uneasy  waves  of  life  subside,  95. 
Where  is  Gulistan,  the  Land  of  Roses  ?  81. 
Where  should  the  Poet's  home  and  household  be  ? 

155. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


357 


Who,  harnessed  in  his  mail  of  Self,  demands, 

315. 
Who  shall  rise  and  cast  away,  307. 
Who  shall  sunder  the  fetters,  308. 
Whose  voice  shall  so  invade  the  spheres,  338. 
Why    art    thou    dead  ?      Upon    the    hills   once 

more,  8. 
Will,  in  his  lawless  mirth,  319. 
Wine,  —  bring  wine  !  15. 
With  rushing  winds  and  gloomy  skies,  137. 
Within  a  green  and  pleasant  land,  152. 


Wrapped  in  his  sad-colored  cloak,  the  Day,  like 
a  Puritan,  standeth,  256. 

Yes,  it  is  May  !  though  not  that  the  young  leaf 

pushes  its  velvet,  250. 
You  ask  me  why  I  sometimes  drop,  93. 
You  ask,  O  Frank  !  how  Love  is  born,  62. 
You  call  me  cold  :  you  wonder  why,  80. 
You  comfort  me  as  one  that  knowing  Fate,  13. 
You  may  water  your  bays,  brother-poets,  with 

lays,  71. 


INDEX    OF   TITLES 


[The  titles  in  small  capital  letters  are  those  of  the  principal  divisions  of  the  hook  ;  those  in  lower 
case  are  of  single  poems,  or  the  subdivisions  of  long  poems.] 


Accolade,  The,  167. 

Ad  Amicos,  248. 

American  People,  To  the,  135. 

Amran's  Wooing,  62. 

Answer,  An,  80. 

Arab  to  the  Palm,  The,  78. 

Ariel  in  the  Cloven  Pine,  46. 

Artists,  To  the,  177. 

Assyrian  Desert,  A  Story  of  the,  37. 

Assyrian  Night-Song,  323. 

At  Home,  93. 

Atonement,  115. 

August,  253. 

Aurum  Potabile,  78. 

Autumnal  Dreams,  117. 

Autumnal  Vespers,  7. 

Bacchic  Ode,  A,  15. 
Baltimore,  Through,  135. 
Bath,  The,  88. 
Bavarian  Girl,  To  a,  14. 
Bedouin  Song,  69. 
Before  the  Bridal,  126. 
Birth  of  the  Prophet,  The,  73. 
Bison  Track,  The,  27. 
Burden  of  the  Day,  The,  307. 

California  Ballads  and  Poems,  1848-1851,  19. 

California,  On  leaving,  91. 

Camadeva.  71. 

Canelo,  El,  23. 

Canopus,  148. 

'"  Casa  Guidi  Windows."  155. 

Cedarcroft,  To  the  Mistress  of,  104. 

Centennial  Hymn.  315. 

Chant  for  the  Bryant  Festival,  143. 

Chapel.  The.  119. 

Charmian,  76. 

Christmas  Sonnets,  142. 

Churchyard  Roses,  117. 

Continents,  The,  17. 

Count  of  Gleichen,  The,  125. 

Cupido,  149. 

Daughter.  To  my,  321. 

Day  in  March.  A,  147. 

December.  115. 

Desert  Hymn  to  the  Sun,  70. 

"  Down  in  the  Dell  I  wandered,"  98. 

Early  Poems.  1. 

Epicedium.  350. 

Epistle  from  Mount  Tmolus,  An,  51. 

Eric  and  Axel,  168. 

Enphorion,  138. 

Exorcism,  111. 


Father,  The,  129. 
Fight  of  Paso  del  Mar,  The,  20. 
Fountain  of  Trevi,  The,  89. 
Friend's  Greeting,  A,  321. 
From  the  North,  141. 
Funeral  Thought,  A,  16. 

Gabriel,  324. 

Garden  of  Irem,  The,  67. 

Gettysburg  Ode,  331. 

G.  H.  B.,  To,  13. 

Gleichen,  The  Count  of,  125. 

Goethe,  338. 

Guests  of  Night,  The,  314. 

Gulistan  :  an  Arabic  Metre,  81. 

Harp,  The  :  an  Ode,  3. 
Harpocrates,  153. 
Hassan  to  his  Mare,  75. 
Headland,  On  the,  109. 
Holly-Tree,  The,  239. 
Home  Ballads,  235. 
Home  Pastorals,  1869-1874,  247. 
Hylas,  34. 

Icarus,  86. 

If  Love  should  come  again,  119. 

Imp  of  Spring-Time,  The,  320. 

Implora  Pace,  311. 

Improvisations,  316. 

In  Italy,  15. 

In  my  Vineyard,  158. 

In  the  Lists,  307. 

In  the  Meadows,  98. 

In  the  Morning,  94. 

In  Winter,  118. 

Inscription  to  the  Mistress  of  Cedarcroft,  104. 

Iris,  311. 

Italy,  In,  15. 

Jane  Reed,  242. 
John  Reed,  241. 

Khalil,  El,  61. 
Kilimandjaro,  72. 
Kubleh,  37. 

Lars  :  a  Pastoral  op  Norway,  261. 

Later  Poems,  83. 

L' Envoi  (I've  passed  the  grim  and  threatening 

warders),  19. 
L'Envoi  (May-time  and  August,  November,  and 

over  the  winter  to  May-time),  259. 
L'Envoi  (Unto  the  Desert  and  the  Desert  steed), 

81. 
Lost  Caryatid,  The,  324. 


36° 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Lost  Crown,  The,  93. 
Lost  May,  The,  116. 
Love  Returned,  124. 
Lover's  Test,  A,  320. 
Lyrics,  1845-1851,  3. 
Lyrics,  1854-1860,  85. 

Maize,  The  Romance  of,  28. 

Manuela,  19. 

Marah,  109. 

March,  137. 

Marie,  To,  315. 

Marigold,  319. 

May-Time,  250. 

Metempsychosis  of  the  Pine,  39. 

Miscellaneous  Poems,  1861-1871,  145. 

"  Moan,  Ye  wild  Winds  !  "  5. 

Mon-da-Min,  28. 

Monterey,  The  Pine  Forest  of,  21. 

Morning,  123. 

Mother,  The,  129, 

My  Dead,  92. 

My  Farm  :  a  Fable,  152. 

My  Prologue,  323. 

Mystery,  The,  97. 

Mystic  Summer,  The,  128. 

Napoleon  at  Gotha,  164. 
National  Ode.  The,  342. 
Neighbor,  The,  94. 
Neva,  The,  139. 
Nile,  To  the,  75. 
Nilotic  Drinking  Song,  71. 
Norseman's  Ride,  The,  17. 
Notus  Ignoto,  309. 
November,  256. 
Nubia,  72. 

Obsequies  in  Rome,  The.  348. 
Occasional  Poems,  1861-1865,  133. 
Odes :  — 

Bacchic,  15. 

Gettysburg,  331. 

Goethe,  338. 

National,  342. 

Obsequies  in  Rome,  348. 

Shakespeare's  Statue,  335. 

The  Harp,  3. 

To  Shelley,  8. 
Old  Pennsylvania  Farmer,  The,  244. 
On  leaving  California,  91. 
On  the  Headland,  109. 
On  the  Sea,  79. 
Oriental  Idyl,  An,  69. 

Paean  to  the  Dawn,  A,  53. 

Palm  and  the  Pine,  The,  89. 

Pandora,  156. 

Paso  del  Mar,  The  Fight  of,  20. 

Peach-Blossom,  322. 

Penn  Calvin,  312. 

Persian  Boy,  To  a,  77. 

Phantom,  The.  99. 

Picture,  A,  97. 

Picture  of  St.  John,  The,  171. 

Pledge  to  Hafiz,  A.,  G6. 

Pine  Forest  of  Monterey,  The,  21. 

Poems  of  the  Orient,  49. 

Poet  in  the  East,  The,  54. 

Poet's  Journal,  The,  101. 

Porphyrogenitus,  85. 

Possession,  126. 

Proem,  249. 

Proem :  To  the  Artists,  177. 


Proposal,  89. 

Quaker  Widow,  The,  237. 

Return  of  Spring,  The,  123. 
Return  of  the  Goddess,  The,  103. 
Romances,  1849-1851,  28. 
Rome,  The  Obsequies  in,  348. 
Run  Wild,  154. 

Scott  and  the  Veterans,  136. 

Sea,  On  the,  79. 

Serapion,  4. 

Shakespeare's  Statue,  335. 

Shekh  Ahnaf's  Letter  from  Baghdad,  160. 

Shelley,  Ode  to,  8. 

Sicilian  Wine,  9. 

Sleeper,  The,  150. 

Smyrna,  77. 

Soldier  and  the  Pard,  The,  42. 


Bedouin  Song,  69. 

'  Daughter  of  Egypt,  veil  thine  eyes  ! '  62. 

'  From  the  bosom  of  the  ocean,  I  seek  thee,* 
13. 
God,  to  whom  we  look  up  blindly,'  113. 

'Love,  I  follow,  follow  thee,'  120. 

'  Now  the  days  are  brief  and  drear,'  96. 

Song  of,  1876,  The,  316. 

Song  of  the  Camp,  The,  86. 

Storm  Song,  11. 

'  Thou  who  sendest  sun  and  rain,'  131. 
Sonnets :  — 

From  the  North,  141. 

Nubia,  72. 

Smyrna,  77. 

Statesman,  A,  143. 

To  a  Persian  Boy,  77. 

To  E.  C.  S.,  142. 

To  G.  H.  B.,  13. 

To  G.  H.  B.,  142. 

To  J.  L.  G.,  143. 

To  Marie,  315. 

To  R.  H.  S.,  142. 

To  T.  B.  A.  and  L.  W.,  142. 

4  Where  should  the  Poet's  home  and  house- 
hold be?'  155. 

Who,  harnessed  in  his  mail  of  Self,  demands, 
315. 
Sorrento,  157. 
Squandered  Lives,  111. 
Statesman,  A,  143. 
Steyermark,  14. 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry,  To,  51. 
Storm-Lines,  10. 
Storm  Song,  11. 
Story  for  a  Child,  A,  141. 
Studies  for  Pictures,  93. 
Summer  Camp,  The,  24. 
Summer  Night,  313. 
Sunken  Treasures,  95. 
Sunshine  of  the  Gods,  The,  308. 
Sylvan  Spirits,  116. 
Symbol,  A,  112. 

Taurus,  6. 

Temptation  of  Hassan  Ben  Khaled,  The,  55. 

Test,  The,  147. 

Thousand  Years,  A,  138. 

Through  Baltimore,  135. 

To  a  Bavarian  Girl,  14. 

To  a  Persian  Boy,  77. 

To  E.  C.  S.,  142. 

To  G.  H.  B.,  13. 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


361 


To  G.  H.  B.,  142. 
To  J.  L.  G.,  143. 
To  J.  G.  Whittier,  for  his  seventieth  birthday, 

321. 
To  John  Greenleaf  "Whittier,  262. 
To  Marie.  315. 
To  my  Daughter,  321. 
To  R."  H.  S.,  142. 
To  T.  B.  A.  and  L.  W.,  142. 
To  the  American  People,  135. 
To  the  Artists.  177. 
To  the  Mistress  of  Cedar  croft,  104. 
Torso,  The.  10S. 
Trevi.  The  Fountain  of,  S9. 
True  Love's  Time  of  Day,  319. 
Two  Greetings.  The.  159. 
Two  Homes,  The,  310. 
Two  Visions,  The,  11. 
Tyre,  SO. 

Under  the  Moon,  127. 


Under  the  Stars,  94. 

Village  Stork,  The,  326. 
Vineyard-Saint,  The,  90. 
Vision.  The,  V24. 
Voice  of  the  Tempter,  The,  110. 
Voyagers,  The,  96. 

Waves,  The,  12. 
Wayside  Dream,  The,  13. 
Wedding  Sonnet,  A,  142. 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  To,  262 ;  for  his  seven- 
tieth birthday,  321. 
Will  and  Law,  319. 
Wind  and  Sea,  92. 
Wisdom  of  Ali,  The,  68. 
Woman,  A,  125. 

Young  Love,  118. 
Youth,  319. 


Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


MAR  26  1902 


tcorvnn.  tdcai 

.R.    26  1902 


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